


Transcendence

by hlmedinfl



Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlmedinfl/pseuds/hlmedinfl
Summary: After William graduated Stratford, life seemed to go on peacefully enough. Uriel and Sytry were at his side, Camio was Emperor of Hell, and Isaac was still failing his exams.But a coup in Hell forces him to confront the one demon that he just can't seem to get out of his head.





	1. Chapter 1

The air was unusually stifling for July in London. William's hands stuck to the newspaper, the ink smearing and smudging in his hands. William considered his surroundings and wondered if he should open the window a bit.  
  
He was in the Golden Dawn's good graces now, and at one of their many hideouts in London. The only thing out of the ordinary, besides the books of black magic, was the inordinate amount of liquor lying around. They called this one the Sage's Retreat, although it was really just an ordinary townhouse.  His own mansion in Pembrokeshire had been completely demolished and no matter how much Sytry had vehemently apologized and offered to rebuild it in gold (too tacky) or silver (too shiny) or sweets (too sticky), William had decided it would be rebuilt the old-fashioned way. Brick by brick and board by board.  
  
It wasn't fashionable for a noble to be in London in the Summer, but that was hardly the first thing on William's mind as he read the columns. Peace seemed inevitable now that the Apocalypse had come to an end, but he still deemed that constant vigilance was the best precaution against another cataclysmic event. He read the papers with precision, scoured each paragraph for any hint of disruption.  
  
Still, sometimes his thoughts would flit away to his friends in Heaven and Hell.  
  
Camio was the Emperor now and it felt like a title that suited him. Even as Headboy he'd been stern but fair, something sorely needed in a ruler, as William was discovering.  
  
Michael had gone back to Heaven. He'd been weary and cranky and full of misery, and yet, William had heard, he'd forgiven all of them.  
  
Uriel had stayed on as his butler.  
  
And Sytry had stayed, too. He would sometimes toy with the idea of joining Heaven's ranks, but he never dared set foot in Hell.  
  
But Dantalion hadn't come back. It was something that didn't sit right with William. _Why not come back?_ , he'd asked then, on that winter night, and months later, he was still asking it. Perhaps he was being a bit unfair, a bit impatient.  
  
A bit bitter.  
  
Dantalion hadn't even bothered to show his face during his graduation ceremony and during the celebrations that followed. As everyone was congratulating him on graduating at the top of his class, for getting into Oxbridge, all he'd been thinking about was Dantalion.  
  
Did Dantalion know how miserable that felt? To not relish in his own celebration of cerebral success? To be at the center of everyone's attention and still feel lonely? Did he know that the party would have been much, much better if he had been there?  
  
No. No, he did not.  
  
William had thought about writing a letter to him. He wanted to tell him everything that had happened, everything that was going to to happen, everything that was happening now—  
  
But.  
  
_But._  
  
But he didn't think he could do it. Even if he could summon the strength to write the letter, summon a demon to deliver the letter, what could he possibly write to make him return? That's what he really wanted. Beyond what he had accomplished, beyond his own success, he wanted Dantalion, not in place of those things, but in stride with them. Side by side with him.  
  
He'd actually started composing the letters, but he never wrote farther than the first sentence. It always came out too desperate sounding, or too cold sounding, or too _something_ sounding that he'd give up and throw it into the fire so no one could read his frustration.  
  
Even as he sat there, on that July day, he was composing yet another letter in his head:  
  
_I am at my wit's end with you—_  
  
No!  
  
_I suppose you have your reasons, and that's fine, but—_  
  
No!  
  
_Get the hell back here—_  
  
Better, but no.  
  
William's grip tightened on the paper.  
  
He realized he'd been reading the same line over and over again.  
  
"Enough of this!" He stood up, the paper falling onto the chair, and walked over to the window. It groaned in protest as he pushed it up but a breeze finally filled the room once it gave way. It smelled of the streets, of unseemly odors and unseemly things, but it was still a breeze.  
  
And he basked in it, letting his pent-up frustration melt into something more reasonable. He hadn't realized he'd been sweating, but the perspiration dripped onto his hands as he gripped the window ledge.  
  
It was not a particularly gorgeous day, but not a particularly ugly one either. He saw mostly workers, flitting through the streets, off on some errand or other. Then he spotted something, or rather someone, behind a very large stack of somethings, that cleared his thoughts of Dantalion.  
  
At least for the moment.

* * *

Maria shifted on the throne. Really, it was _her_ throne, but she hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that she was the Empress of Hell. She preferred to go by Mrs.Caxton (she really liked the sound of it, had liked it thirty years now), but no demon had the gall to call her that. It was always "Your Majesty" or something equally pretentious.  
  
She supposed she'd get used to it. In the past months, she'd had to get used to a lot of things: the fact that she could be young again, the fact that she could perform magic without the need for witchcraft or sacrifices, the fact that…  
  
Camio looked over at her and smiled.  
  
Oh yes. Especially the fact that she was married to Camio and would be for a very, very long time. Perhaps forever.  
  
"Are you tired, my dear? You can leave if you like," he offered.  
  
In front of them, Beelzebub and the other rulers of Hell were finalizing the reconstruction plans. The West had suffered enormous casualties and there was still instability in the area. If nothing was done the seeds of rebellion would start to fester, John had said, and with such a new Emperor on the throne (and a half-demon at that), there would be little deterrent from an all-out civil war. Especially from the proud and all-together shaken pure demons.  
  
"No, I think I'll stay a while longer." She was Empress, that was true, but she had never imagined she'd be one. She was a simple country girl and palace life had been the stuff of stories for as long as her human life had lasted.  
  
But that was over now.  
  
So now she studied the demons, tried to remember their names and tried as she might to be a firm and fair Empress. It would not be easy, she'd been told. Nephilim were still seen as something lesser, and even to some something to revile, but she knew she could change their minds. As simple as convincing school boys with mince pie.

* * *

Gilgamesh was coy and clever, but he was not cruel. He liked the taste of blood because it was sustenance and he liked the sound of war because it meant a hearty dinner and a willing man or maiden afterward.  
  
He was civilized, or so they said.  
  
Dantalion still eyed with with suspicion, but it was a suspicion that was turning into tolerance all the time and kept turning at every ill-fitting smile and nostalgic joke.  
  
Now Gilgamesh walked the corridors of Dantalion's palace with confidence. It was gloomy business tending a loser's wounded pride, so he'd been told, especially when that person had lost the race to become Emperor of Hell, but Gilgamesh did not seem to notice that particular look of regret on Dantalion's face. There was almost something like relief. Like he had wanted to lose and was glad of it.  
  
But Gilgamesh did not particularly like losing, and as he poured the glasses of wine for his lord and himself, he wondered if it was his own pride he was trying to nurse back to health.  
  
No, it wouldn't be, he thought to himself, because he hadn't cared either way.  
  
He presented himself to his lord, who, as was the case these days, engulfed in a tide of never-ending paperwork.  
  
"Won't you take a break, Master?" he asked.  
  
Dantalion blinked his way and blinked away. "Don't call me that."  
  
Gilgamesh carried the wine and invited himself to sit on the edge of Dantalion's desk. "Then won't you join me, _my lord_." He offered a glass to him.  
  
"Fine." Dantalion stood up from his chair, a half-written signature blotted out by the ink of the running pen.  
  
It was always the same, the same practiced motion. Gilgamesh took his own glass and tipped it to Dantalion's lips, and Dantalion—less practiced and more hesitant—did the same. The wine would flood his mouth, heavy and thick, and Gilgamesh would swallow and chuckle out of relief or some other thing that proved it wasn't poison.  
  
"It really is peaceful," Gilgamesh sighed wistfully. He rose from the desk and threw open the curtains. Dantalion squinted as the light that flooded in. The sky was the same color as their wine, but to Gilgamesh, the color of wine had always been a beautiful color.  
  
Dantalion snickered into his glass. "You hate it, don't you?"  
  
Gilgamesh feigned innocence. "Not me, my lord."  
  
This time, Dantalion did not bother to conceal his ill mood. "Haven't I told you? You can't lie to me." He looked at the red skies, the red of his eyes dyed even redder by the reflection.  
  
Gilgamesh watched him, watched the way his eyes rested, but couldn't ever keep still. As if he were always running, always fighting, still at war with the world and with himself. How troubling.  
  
"You're thinking of him, aren't you?"  
  
Dantalion didn't answer.  
  
"Why don't you go to him? I'm sure he'd gladly welcome you back."  
  
Dantalion turned away from the window and set the glass on the desk. "It's not that easy."  
  
"Summoning a transportation circle is." Gilgamesh turned away from the window as well, but he couldn't abandon his glass. Not that easily. "Walking through one is even easier. Seeing Will—"  
  
"That's not what I meant." Dantalion spread his arms on the desk, the papers crinkling in protest as his hands started to turn to fists. "I can't go back to William like this. Not like a…"  
  
"—dog with its tail between its legs?"  
  
Dantalion looked up at him, astonished, as if he hadn't counted on Gilgamesh to know such a human expression. As if he hadn't counted on Gilgamesh to know his exact feelings. As if he hadn't counted on Gilgamesh at all.  
  
Gilgamesh held the glass of wine to his chin but did not drink it, yet the gesture was still there, full of gossipy interest and dripping sarcasm. "Don't tell me you actually wanted to be Emperor."  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"No." This time Gilgamesh titled the glass to his lips. He drunk in the sweetness, the raw fire of it, so much like Dantalion. And yet, it seemed a bit too subtle, as if it hadn't reached its full potential. "I don't think you wanted to be Emperor, but you didn't want Camio to be, either."  
  
Dantalion's eyes shot to his. "You're speaking of treason, Gilgamesh."  
  
Ah, there it was. The hint of anger, the potential he'd been looking for. "So you're fine with him on the throne? You're fine with him killing your friend? He gets away with it and you get nothing." He turned to Dantalion. "You don't want revenge, my lord?" Gilgamesh took another sip of wine. Now, there was only a one slow sip left in the glass. He turned back to the window and its ruddy sky. He could feel Dantalion glowering stare drilling a hole into his back. He was entirely prepared to let that rage fester, to let those flames feed and seethe, but the answer came sooner than expected.  
  
"I didn't say that either."  
  
Gilgamesh turned back to face him. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but Dantalion was still glowering at him and his hand was still making a fist and there was still that sadness on his face that meant he was thinking of William or Baphomet or Solomon or all of them together.  
  
Gilgamesh closed the gap between them and put his hand on his shoulder. "My lord, just look at you. I don't think you've had enough to drink." Gilgamesh drained the last of his glass and set it aside.  
  
It was true, Dantalion's glass was still nearly full and completely forgotten on the desk.  
  
Dantalion went to reach for it, but Gilgamesh took hold of his chin, looked directly into those glowering eyes, and brought his lips to his. He could feel Dantalion shudder, but he did not back away or break the kiss, not even when the wine left his mouth and came flooding into his hard and fast and almost chokingly thick.  
  
At last, Dantalion broke away, coughing and red, his eyes tearing, a hand over his mouth and a trickling of wine spilling from his lips. "Don't do that again."  
  
"Don't do what again?" And this time Gilgamesh's voice was thick, still feigning innocence, but hot and breathy, too. He moved in again, not for Dantalion's lips but his neck, tearing at the collar and sucking at the veins there. He heard Dantalion make a noise, a hiss or a moan or a curse or all of those, but he still didn't say no. "You don't want this?" He looked up at Dantalion, whose face was still red, but not from the wine. "Or is it this?" His mouth found the other side of his throat, his hand roaming down Dantalions thigh. "I only want to please you, my lord."  
  
"You… liar…" Dantalion gasped, but his hips were against his hips and he'd grabbed Gilgamesh by the hair and was pulling him in for more. Gilgamesh heard the thunk as their bodies hit the desk, the crash of the wine glasses and the flutter of papers. He tore a Dantalion's shirt, buttons flying and fabric ripping and the sweet, salty scent of exposed skin making him want more.  
  
Still, Dantalion did not pull away. So Gilgamesh lent in, hoisting and crashing Dantalion onto the desk, wine and paper and ink everywhere, hands and mouths everywhere, and Dantalion's hissing moans all Gilgamesh could hear.  
  
When it was over, and he was sure his lord had been satisfied, Gilgamesh spoke into his ear.  
  
"Now then, shall we depose an emperor?"

* * *

"William! You really must help me!" Isaac entered the completely secret hideout of the Golden Dawn, a large stack of books nearly tipping over as he tried to close the door behind him.  
  
"What are you doing here, Isaac?"  
  
"I wrote to Master Mathers." The young man was breathless, and yet hopelessly determined to do eleven things all at once. He kicked the door closed with his foot, he set the pile of books down, he flipped open the pages of one of the books, and, all the while, he still managed to talk with lightning fast speed. "He said you were staying here and I knew it just had to be you. You were the only one who could help me—so he gave me the address—oh, I pleaded so much for it—and if you don't help me my father's sure to disinherit me, I think he really means it this time—oh, and my brother is so, so ashamed of me and I—I just didn't know what to do so I went to you of course—"  
  
William held out a hand, a hand that clearly meant to stop, but he just kept talking.  
  
"It needed to be you. I know you're the only one who could do it! I mean, you stopped the Apocalypse from happening and England from plunging into war so—"  
  
"Isaac!"  
  
The young man looked up from his book. There was a twig in his hair and William was confounded on how it had gotten there.  
  
"What's going on?" William demanded.  
  
Isaac looked up finally, his eyes filled with tears. Big, round, bulbous tears. "I failed my exams!"  
  
William let out a sigh. "Again?" He'd almost said, _that's all?_  
  
"And the masters said, 'this is your last chance, Isaac Morton!'" He said the words as if he were a master himself, wagging his finger and shaking his head and speaking in deep tones of condemnation and academia. "'If you do not pass this time, you are expelled!'"  
  
William considered this. "If I were those masters, I would want you stay in school for as long as possible." He grinned. "After all, you're a continual source of tuition."  
  
"But that's thing!" Isaac whined. "My father refuses to pay. He said it wasn't about the money, it was a matter of principle!"  
  
"At least it seems they still have _their_ principles," William responded dryly. He wanted so badly to drink from a cup of tea which he felt would give his words more emphasis. _Somehow_.  
  
"Oh, you must help me, William! You graduated at the top of the class after all!" The compliment felt like a badge he could pin to his chest, something he could gloat over, but there was really no sense in doing that now. Not in front of poor Isaac, at least.  
  
"I suppose I could try tutoring you." William shrugged. "But I have a very intense studying regime that includes four hours of reading scholarly articles and another four hours of intense philosophical discussion."  
  
"Please teach me!" Isaac bowed. "I will be the best student you've ever had!"  
  
"You're the only student I've ever had."  
  
Isaac beamed. "Even better!"  
  
"What's all the fuss?" A drowsy voice came drifting from the second floor, followed by the _creak_ , _creak_ of footsteps on the echoey staircase.  
  
In a second, Isaac was gone, flying up the stairs to meet—  
  
"Sytry!" Isaac took his hands in Sytry's and all but hugged him. It was a difficult maneuver because one of those hands had a pastry in it.

"How are you?"  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
To say that Isaac had had a growth spurt over the last few months would have been a vast understatement. The boy had nearly exploded upwards and now towered at a daunting height. Even taller than William. He'd also become leaner around the edges and was sprouting what seemed to be the beginnings of an auburn mustache.  
  
"You don't remember me? It's Isaac! Isaac Morton! I'm the one who summoned you!"  
  
"You didn't summon me." Sytry released himself from Isaac's grip, and took a bite of his pastry. "Though I am glad to see you."  
  
Although William couldn't tell from the angle he was standing, he was sure Isaac was beaming again.  
  
"Oh! It's so nice to see you, too!" This time Isaac didn't hold back. He wrapped his arms around Sytry in a giant hug, careening him off his feet and even off the staircase entirely. William was about to say something along the lines of, _don't reduce my friend to a pile of ash, Sytry,_ but he didn't need to. Isaac placed Sytry down gently at the bottom of the staircase before any flashes of blinding light appeared.  
  
Sytry flashed a look toward William. "His voice is deeper, and he looks a bit stranger, but it's still Isaac." He said something under his breath, too. Something like, 'so humans can transform, too. He has to show me his technique.' William made a mental note to teach Sytry more about human physiology one day.  
  
"So will you really tutor me?" Isaac asked as he joined them back at the base of the stairs.  
  
"I suppose I can." William held his hand to his chin. "Though I won't do it for free."  
  
Ah, yes. The money situation. Not only had William lost his house, he was also living off of the last of his savings. At least he'd earned a full scholarship to Oxbridge, but for the remaining few months, he'd have to survive by his own means. And sometimes Kevin's gambling winnings.  
  
"I thought you might say that." Isaac opened the door and called out, "it's a yes, guys!"  
  
All at once, servants entered the apartment. They brought trunks and trunks of stuff, along with case of books and all manner of things that indicated that Isaac was about to set up semi-permanent residence at the totally-secret headquarters of the Golden Dawn.  
  
"Master Mathers said it was also okay if I stayed here for a while. To guard the Golden Dawn's secrets, you know?" Isaac said it like it was a secret unto itself. Like the Golden Dawn wasn't actually a just an excuse to get drunk on the weekends.  
  
"Let me guess. Your family's London house is being rented out right now."  
  
"They're really good tenants, William! We can't just kick them out."  
  
William wanted to smirk, but he was glad for the company. Things seemed so dull now that public school was over.  
  
"Did you bring me any tea?" Sytry knelt down and inspected one of the trunks. His nose must have been keen, because, upon opening it, William saw there was nothing but tea in it.  
  
"Of course. All the best ones, too!" Isaac hunkered down beside the trunk, his height still a strange something to get used to. The both of them unearthed tin after tin so that by the end, a pyramid had been erected in the foyer devoted to the best of the Morton family's enterprise.  
  
William felt like laughing. It would be like old times; one last hurrah before university, before the curtains of adulthood fluttered open and engulfed him.

* * *

Wounded pride often bred more pride, Gilgamesh was starting to discover. A less sure of itself, fractured kind of pride. A desperate kind of pride.  
  
"What brings you here, _Nephilim_?" Nephilim was not a curse word in Hell, but Empusa could make it sound like it was.  
  
She stood in the shadow of what was once a wall, or a fortress, all but dust and sand and relics now.  
  
"Oh, do you insult your Empress? Isn't she also a Nephilim?" He said it cooly, dryly, and made her cheeks puff up and her eyes bat fearful for a second. Then, she settled into something that resembled melancholy. "Just tell me why you're here so I don't have to kill you."  
  
Gilgamesh smirked.  
  
"I need you to gather the pure demons for me."  
  
"Why should I?" Her words turned sour, but they had never been sugary sweet in the first place.  
  
Gilgamesh's hand crashed against the wall beside her. It made her gasp and bite her lip but her eyes did not back down.  
  
"Because if you do not," Gilgamesh began his words nice and slow. "Dantalion will kill you."  
  
She looked away with spite in her eyes, but he could tell she was trembling. Perhaps not very much, but he saw the twitch of her fingers, the way she shifted her weight between each leg ever so subtly. As if he wouldn't notice.  
  
His other hand came up and was about to reach for the stray hair that had come undone from her delicate bob.  
  
"Don't you dare touch me, you bastard!"  
  
She tried to get away, but he trapped her, both hands planted on the wall, their bodies close, his arms a prison.  
  
"You didn't think it strange that he didn't come for you. After all you did to his friend?"  
  
She blinked and held a hand to her chest, as if it would keep him away. "Baphomet was—"  
  
There was a smack, his hand against her cheek and her hand coming up rake nails down his chest—  
  
But it never happened. He caught her wrist and twisted.  
  
"You don't deserve to even utter his name." He kept twisting and she shrieked.  
  
"Let go!"  
  
"Can't get away, Empusa?"  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"I told you. Gather the pure demons and Dantalion will offer you lenience."  
  
She looked at him, full of spite, and rage, but also on the verge of tears.  
  
"Let go!" Her voice was raw and deep and full of panic.  
  
But his grip, like his voice, had not changed at all. "Then I suppose we have an agreement, don't we?"

* * *

And Empusa did not waste her time.

"It's impertinent of you to be here without an invitation." Beelzebub's words were colder than the howling winds of his home, and yet, Gilgamesh only shifted the curve of his smile.  
  
"Let us hear what he has to say." Camio's voice was stern, but there was impatience undercutting it, like calm water with a deadly undertow. He sat on the throne, the Empress seated beside him and his Nephilim companion to his right. Both of them look perturbed. They had not been demons long enough to hide their emotions, it seemed.  
  
All around them, the throne room was buzzing with conversation. It had been since Dantalion had marched in, a dozen or so generals from the Southern and Western faction in his wake. There were more waiting outside, surrounding the palace and waiting with bated breath at Dantalion's command.  
  
"We are here," Gilgamesh began calmly, "to stake Grand Duke Dantalion's claim as Emperor."  
  
There were gasps, and though Beelzebub had uttered no more words, there was still irritation and rage written all over his face.  
  
"Is this true, Dantalion?" This time Camio did not try to hide his impatience. It rose out of him and half the court grew restlessly quiet. The other half continued their whispers, unabashed.  
  
"It's true!" Empusa strode to the front of the crowd. Something like shock registered on both Camio and Beelzebub's faces. "Duke Dantalion has the support of the pure demons of the West."  
  
There was another gasp, followed by more unfettered conversation. Few noticed a girl with a sleight frame rise from her seat at the table. Even less noticed as she paced the hall and joined Dantalion's side.  
  
It was not until she raised her voice above the murmuring court that their heads turned toward her.  
  
"Duke Dantalion has my support as well."  
  
"Lamia?" Beelzebub's chair skidded against the marble as he shot up from it. His hands were in tight fists, but this time there wasn't anger in his eyes. There was disbelief.  
  
"Don't look surprised, Duke Beelzebub," she said, her tone cold and disaffected. "The Southern faction has always supported Duke Dantalion for Emperor."  
  
"West and South are against you," Gilgamesh spread his arms out. "And the East will not come to your aid. What will you do, Your Majesty?" The words rolled off his tongue like a sneer, though he never lost his composure, he never was anything but calm.  
  
Camio's lips did not move. There was a fury in his golden eyes, a fury that was raging, building, but also thinking. Deliberating.  
  
"Shall we have a civil war, then?" Gilgamesh offered.  
  
At once, the room lit up with hushed conversation. Some of the demons talked as if it was reprehensible to even think of something like that in the aftermath of the Apocalypse. But, Gilgamesh could tell, some titled their heads, as if piqued, as if willing.  
  
"Or perhaps one-on-one combat. Your Majesty against Duke Dantalion." His eyes narrowed. "Or a representative. Someone of your household. That man beside you may—"  
  
"Enough of this!" Camio's voice echoed through the throne room. "On what grounds do you come to challenge me for the throne?"  
  
"Well you know—" Giglamesh started, but Camio cut him off.  
  
"No! Not you!" If Camio could have melted him with this eyes, he would have. "I want to hear it from you, Dantalion."  
  
Dantalion's gaze drifted upward, towards the dais, towards Camio. They met, eye to eye and the air seemed to vibrate: with power, with restraint, with possibility.  
  
"William didn't elect you, Camio."  
  
"He didn't elect anyone—"  
  
"He didn't elect _you_ ," Dantalion continued, "and as it stands, we both have equal claims. You as Lucifer's son, I as his kin." He stopped for a moment, looking out into the crowd. "And so the throne should go to the one with the most power."  
  
Again, a hushed whisper filled the room, a wave of conclusions and reasoning and arguing and fanaticism. Dantalion had the support of the pure demons and the Southern faction. Camio only had Beelzebub.  
  
"So what will it be?" Gilgamesh asked. "Will you step down, or shall we decide with a war instead?"  
  
Camio closed his eyes. He spoke something to his retainer, who disappeared behind the throne along with the Empress, the folds of her dress swept up in the curtains.  
  
"Very well," he said at last, his words measured and mollified. "But there is no need for war." He stood from the throne and stepped down from the dais. The throne room was absolutely silent, so each step held its weight, each step intoned on the marble as if it were a crack of thunder.  
  
"But you shall show me this power of yours, Dantalion." He held out his hand, a knife materializing through skin and bone, until it was so sharp in sung through the air as he walked. "Only then will—"  
  
There was a crash and Camio's world flooded with darkness. The last thing he was saw was Dantalion standing absolutely still.

* * *

There were times when Sytry preferred to be around people and there were times when he did not. And then there were the times when he was not sure what he wanted. It was one of those times now.  
  
Isaac had wished them good night and had headed off to bed after a stern lecture on Latin, History, and all manner of boring human matters. Now it was just William and him, staring blankly into the fire. He might have asked if William wanted any tea (that was usually Uriel's job), but there was a glassy tiredness to his eyes. As if he didn't want anything.  
  
No. That wasn't quite right.  
  
There _was_ something he wanted.  
  
It just wasn't something Sytry could give him.  
  
"Having Isaac here should make the place more lively," William said. His voice was strained. He'd been talking for a long time, after all. Talking about all sorts of things. And Isaac had grabbed at his head and pulled at his hair and cried into his palms that it was all too much to remember in the span of a few hours.  
  
Perhaps William enjoyed watching Isaac's pain. But it was strange, because as unrelenting as William was, as prescriptive as William was, Isaac did not let up, either. He kept going, kept listening, and by the end of it he was able to congregate a few verbs and recite a few names of humans who might have been important once.  
  
William looked to him. "Are you okay with that? With him living here for a while?"  
  
He asked it like it was Sytry's decision, like he had a say in the matter. Like his input mattered.  
  
He still wasn't used to feeling like that.  
  
"It's Isaac!" Sytry responded. "In fact, I'm glad he's here."  
  
Not that he would have traded having William to himself (or nearly himself, Uriel was still a near-constant presence), but variety was always nice. It was a break from routine. It was a reprieve from the smoky tendrils of memory that wanted to grab him at every instant and—  
  
"Are you sleeping well?" William asked. "Shall I make you some tea?"  
  
_I was going to ask you that!_ Sytry almost said.  
  
Instead, he regained his composure and simply shook his head.  
  
At times, Sytry would have liked to boast that it was his power keeping the enemies of William at bay. That it was his barrier—his protection spell—that encased them now.  
  
Only, it wasn't.  
  
Sytry had sealed his powers—those terrible powers that weren't even his—himself. He'd buried them deep and he hoped they were suffocating somewhere. Now it was William who was protecting _him_ , the pact with Solomon the only fragment of power he could call on, and as far as he knew, the only power he needed.  
  
Still, it felt somewhat unfair for William to have to be his guardian. He'd always thought of himself as William's protector, and now that the roles were reversed, Styry really didn't know what to do with himself. Things couldn't continue like this, and yet, what solution was there?  
  
Return to Heaven?  
  
Sytry's didn't let it show on his face, but he was sickened at the thought. He knew it was a little different now, but in some ways, Heaven had been no better than Hell.  
  
"Right," William's voice cut through his thoughts. "I'll go and make some."  
  
"No." Sytry rose first. "Allow me."  
  
He hurried off to the kitchen before a protest could erupt.  
  
Back in the drawing room, William most certainly had not wished to be left alone. Isaac's sudden appearance, along with the lesson he'd come up with, had distracted him. But now that the distractions were gone, he felt his mind snapping back like an elastic band, once again drafting letters that would never be written.  
  
The longer he waited the worse it would get, he was sure, or perhaps he would wake up one day and forget about that demon with the sad, red eyes entirely. It wasn't likely, but perhaps. Or would it be more like a broken bone, echoing pain each time he forgot it had not been completely healed?  
  
_I don't hate you for leaving_ , the letter was unwinding itself in his head, _I hate you for never coming back._  
  
The tears were threatening to come now. He held them at bay, braced himself, determined not to make a scene before Sytry or Kevin or whomever appeared before him next.  
  
_I hate you because I can never get you out of my head._  
  
_And I love you for that, too._  
  
He just couldn't help himself. Every time he thought about Dantlalion, every time—  
  
There was a crash and William shot up. A portal had opened before the fire place and William thought he heard his heart beating in his ears. Could it be…? The portal twisted, warping at a sudden weight, a shift, and then, to his surprise, a woman staggered out of it.  
  
She was dressed with a finery that rivaled the Queen. But where the Queen wore black, she wore green. And though she looked different, as dignified and resplendent as a drawing from a book of fairy tales, flushed with youth and power and elegance, William still remembered her.  
  
"Ms.Mollins? No… Mrs…"  
  
"Oh please, oh please, oh please!" Tears covered her face. They glinted in the firelight, along with the jewels strewn in her hair and clothes.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
He offered his hand to her and she took it like it was her only tether to the world.  
  
"Oh, you must help me!" She choked on her sobs. "Camio's in danger!"


	2. Chapter 2

This body, the beautiful body that Michael had given her, now felt like a corpse Jeanne had been forced to wear.  
  
Perhaps that was why she’d agreed to the Gilgamesh’s request. His smooth voice disgusted her, and his eyes put her nerves on edge the way they looked through her like a piece of glass. She’d hesitated for a long while, but still she had agreed.  
  
Now he looked at her in the grand throne room, the hateful Emperor’s crumpled form now being hauled off. Her spear, the one with the flag that had been tattered beyond recognition, lay implanted in the floor close to where he had fallen.  
  
Perhaps this was why she had agreed. She had hated Camio and, had been nursing her hate all these months, only to realize that each vengeful thought took her farther from Heaven’s light.  
  
That’s when she caught him staring at her. She didn’t return a glare for him; it wasn’t in her nature to glare. Once upon a time she thought spite wasn’t in her nature, either.  
  
He came up to her and for a second she thought he would congratulate her on her perfect aim. But he stopped, just short of a comfortable distance, so she closed the gap and came up to him.  
  
“It is done,” Jeanne said curtly. “Do not bother me again.”  
  
She was about to turn, to walk away, but he caught her, not with his arm, but with a question.  
  
“We’re the same, aren’t we?” He spoke to her.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“We’ve seen the heights of Heaven and the depths of Hell. Not many can say the same,” he said. “And yet, we’ll always be known to humans as tragic heroes. The ones that could not escape their own mortality.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me what they think.”  
  
“Yes,” Gilgamesh nodded. “Soon, nothing will matter to you.”  
  
Jeanne stepped away from him. Nothing? That seemed worse, somehow, than the spite swirling inside of her. And yet, it seemed inevitable, too. Now that she’d taken down the Emperor, what was left? A small glimmer of hope still flickered, the thought that Michael might come for her. But how could she face him with her broken wings? With the scar of the Fallen still etched on her forehead?  
  
This time, she wanted to turn around, walk out of the throne room and disappear into the wastelands of Hell forever, but another demon had placed something in Gilgamesh’s hand and now he was holding it out to her.  
  
“A parting gift,” he said. She studied it, a velvety red cloth wrapped around a simple wooden pole. It smelled like flowers in May and, almost without thinking, almost because her hands felt strangely empty without anything—any country, or creed, or cause to hold on to—she took it.  
  
“We are not the same,” she said, facing him sternly.  
  
His eyebrows rose, a perfunctory gesture that did not erase his calm mien. “Oh?”  
  
“You were a king, part god, once,” she said simply. “But I will always be a soldier.” And without hesitation, without waiting for his next expression, his next oily words, she strode out. The palace grounds were a riot of armies, a shifting of powers, but she walked right past that, out into the open, a fallen angel in the land of fallen angels and humans and empires.  
  
She stood at the edge of the cliff, just outside of the palace’s gates, and studied the dusty pallet of colors, as dark as Heaven was bright. The wind picked up and caught her hair, caught the remnants of her wings, and unfurled the flag in her hands. She recognized the pattern easily. In another lifetime, she would have spited it.  
  
But she wasn’t that person, or rather that angel, anymore. Now she proudly displayed the flag, resting it against her shoulder as she marched through towns and cities and plains.  
  
The flag of the new Emperor. A new weight to hold, a new mission to carry out over the blood-stained horizon and ever expanding emptiness.

* * *

Dantalion used to marvel at the way Gilgamesh could get into his mind, read his thoughts, slip out again, and fulfill his every need. He used to wonder why Gilgamesh always hid behind hedonistic rendezvous and lazy grins, why he refused to climb his way to the top of the demon world even though he could. Even though it would have been easy for him.  
  
But Dantalion didn’t marvel or wonder anymore. He didn’t have to.  
  
“Duke Beelzebub, do you swear your fealty to Emperor Dantalion?” Gilgamesh asked. His voice was loud, but not overly so.  
  
Duke Beelzebub knelt before them, just steps from the dais. His head was bowed. His shoulders were rigid.  
  
“My armies are yours, Your Majesty.” He put his hand on his chest. “My blood, my life, my souls are yours.”  
  
The banners had changed in the palace in a matter of seconds from green to a lush, velvety red. So had the palace itself. No longer a collection of columns and long hallways and cool marble, now the palace had the smell of inlaid wood and roses heaping from vases and perfume wafting around the curtains and carpets and nobles.  
  
Dantalion flicked his wrist and Beelzebub rose. The demon could hide his discomfiture well, Dantalion noticed. There was no hint of unease in his icy blue eyes, no step of trepidation in his posture. He mingled in with the crowd and was lost among them. Perhaps he had returned to his home. Perhaps he was plotting a rebellion all his own. Danatalion wiped the thought from his head.  
  
“He’ll remain loyal,” Lamia had said. “He swears he will.”  
  
But she hadn’t sounded sure.  
  
It was a good thing Dantalion didn’t need surety. He thrived on instability. It always found him, and he always somehow managed to stand on solid ground when it came, even when the world was falling apart around him.  
  
Now he walked through the crowd, not used to the demons, noble and pure and Nephilim alike, all bowing to him.  
  
At least, there was one thing he was used to. Not so much the bowing, but the distance they gave him, the way they cut a path for him, the way the didn’t speak to him, nor look him in the eyes. He continued out of the throne room, down the hall and watched as the servants also tipped their heads in his direction. Not one of them spoke, except to say “Your Majesty” and Dantalion would have grown restless of the silence if it weren’t for the nobles in the throne room who were now free to resume their conversations.  
  
If it weren’t for—  
  
A door opened before him. Although magic could have easily done the task, it was Gilgamesh who had run up ahead of him and opened the door himself. It was Gilgamesh who had been at his heels the whole time, a near silent presence. A shadow, except when he didn’t want to be. Except when he preferred to be the sun instead.  
  
“Your Majesty.” He bowed as well, but it was all flourish, all performance. There was still a smirk in his tone and his eyes were not like Beelzebub’s—distant and far away and scared and raging—but they were not like Lamia’s either: close and loyal but a bit scared, too.  
  
No, those eyes were like Solomon’s: full of hidden knowledge and just as full of bitterness. Dantalion didn’t like the comparison but it stuck. Perhaps the only difference was that Gilgamesh seemed to enjoy his secrets; Solomon’s secrets had tortured him.  
  
Dantalion walked through the door and there was a click as it shut behind them both. This room had been fashioned like his study in D…, except the desk had been replaced by a bed. It was a sturdy and luxurious-looking thing for sure, but it looked more ornament than practical. Dantalion chose the sofa and kicked up his boots on its arm.  
  
“Do you want anything, my lord?”  
  
“For you to cut the act.”  
  
Gilgamesh’s lips curled. “If you wish.” He gave one last tip of his head before plunging down on the other sofa. A table sat between them, but Dantalion doubted it would keep Gilgamesh at bay for long.  
  
“Now then,” Gilgamesh said, his tone crisp and steady, “shall I call for him?”  
  
“For who?” Dantalion had left the throne room to be away from others.  
  
“William, of course.”  
  
The name made him reel. Some voices in his head begged him to show off the palace to William. Wouldn’t he think it was grand, those voices asked, wouldn’t he be amazed by it? By you?  
  
But other voices killed those ones. He’d hate it here, they said, and he’d hate you for what you did. There is no atonement for you. Destruction is all you’re good for.  
  
He snuffed those voices out just as quickly.  
  
“Not now,” Dantalion said simply. “Things are still unstable.” He wanted to sound sure of himself, but Gilgamesh always saw through his uncertainty. There was no way to guard against him. It wasn’t like when they sparred, arms and fists bracing for impact. Those times, Gilgamesh was the one to feint and Dantalion was the one to catch him in the lie; these times were the opposite, but Gilgamesh didn’t need to navigate through Dantalion’s subterfuge, he always knew just where to jab, where to swing, where to hit where it hurt the most.  
  
“You don’t think he’ll approve,” Gilgamesh said casually. He’d crossed his legs and leaned into the sofa. “Who knows? He might even grow to resent you for what you’ve done.”  
  
Dantalion glared at him, but it was a glare without consequence. “When I can ensure his safety, I’ll invite him here.”    
  
It looked like there was something Gilgamesh wanted to say, but he didn’t. He kept it behind those sly, knowing eyes. As Emperor, Dantlaion could have demanded he spill those secrets, but he’d never been hungry for secrets. The more Gilgamesh kept to himself, he thought, the more his own secrets could stay locked away.  
  
Perhaps that was he’d said yes to Gilgamesh all that time ago in that snow-strewn wasteland. Because Gilgamesh didn’t need his answers, his confessions, and the secrets that threatened to bleed him dry. And Dantalion hadn’t felt he’d needed Gilgamesh’s, either. He hadn’t felt he’d needed Gilgamesh beyond the prestige his presence brought him.  
  
Yet, somewhere, somehow, the lines had blurred. And now, Gilgamesh kicked up from the sofa and shoved the table to the side and straddled Dantalion on the couch.  
  
“I can’t decide which one is my favorite image of you,” he said, his hand brushing his cheek. “You on that throne or the you on this couch.” Dantalion found himself kissing that hand, burying his own fist in that golden, wild hair. “Still,” his hand drifted away. “The bed would be more practical.”  
  
Dantalion pulled him down, hair and hands and lips, and he hoped his kiss said yes and no all at the same time. Yes, it would be more practical, but no, we’re not going there. Hot mouths meeting together, lips on skin, saliva mixing, hands finding purchase on chest and thighs and—  
  
He broke from the kiss and breathed against Gilgamesh’s ear, “I thought you liked the challenge.”  
  
Gilgamesh chuckled.  
   
And yet, it was hardly a challenge when Gilgamesh peeled off each article of his clothing without protest, when Dantalion found himself trying to bury moans in his throat and failing, when Gilgamesh always knew just the right way to touch him, to fuck him, to make the world turn dark and light again until all he saw was that glistening chest and that golden hair and those eyes that were so much like Solomon’s and not at all like them. And Dantalion wanted to hold onto something, but the sofa offered nothing and so he found himself biting his lip until he tasted blood.  
  
“Ah, I know,” Gilgamesh said, a little breathless but still composed while trailing a hand up Dantalion’s chest, to the blood on his chin, never once letting up the rhythm. “This is my favorite image of you.” He brought the blood to his lips and tasted it, as if it were sweeter than expensive wine. Then he caught Dantalion’s wrists and held them over his head, just to see his body arching, just to have their faces touching. His other hand wrapped and squeezed, teasing and fluid but never quite losing its rhythm. “But I want to know,” Gilgamesh began, “does an emperor beg on his knees or on his back?”

* * *

“What’s this? Miss Mollins is back?” Maria’s entrance had roused Isaac from his sleep. He’d come hurdling down the stairs, thunder rumbling as it creaked beneath him, and had fired off a lexicon’s worth of possible demons that could be invading the house. He’d been just as surprised as William when he’d seen Maria’s frame against the fireplace.  
  
At least, he’d been more polite than Sytry, who had actually come careening from the kitchen, a knife reared and ready for a fight. “Get away from William you—” He’d stopped short when he saw the Empress, but he’d kept the knife in hand.  
  
William apologized for his friends’ rudeness and directed her to the chair beside the fire. He’d been surprised when he touched her hand, power wicking off of it, as if it recognized him.  
  
“I can still feel him,” she said as she touched her heart. A light sheen of sweat covered her face and the reflection of the fire flickered on her cheeks. She looked almost human then. “He’s still alive.”  
  
“What happened?” William sat beside her. He couldn't tell if he was worried, or excited, or anxious, but he knew he was desperate for answers.  
  
“Duke Dantalion came into the palace,” she explained. William felt his heart shudder for a second, not at the name, but at the way she said it. Like it was a curse. “He marched in with his armies and challenged Cam—the Emperor—for the throne.”  
  
Isaac looked on with disbelief. Sytry’s eyes scrutinized the fireplace, as if another demon was about to come rearing out of it. William only looked at Maria, at the way her worry was quickly being replaced with contempt.  
  
“And what happened next?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even and steady.  
  
“Duke Dantalion’s retainer suggested civil war at first,” she went on.  
  
“Gilgamesh?”  
  
“Yes, that one.” She inclined her head as she thought, her brow furrowing as she went over the scenario in her head. “But it wasn’t his true aim. I heard, just before we left, that Camio was agreeing to something… I stopped to listen, but John urged me on. We turned a corner and he opened a portal for me.” She stared out at the fire, and her eyes seemed expectant for a moment. “I thought he would come with me, but when I turned around there was only darkness.”  
  
They were all silent for a while.  
  
“A demon shouldn’t have made it through the barrier. Where’s Uriel?” Sytry demanded. He was agitated enough to forget his usual politeness. Miss Mollins wasn't just _any_ demon _._  William wanted to chastise him, but there was no time for it.   
  
At the same time, Isaac perked up, “a coup? In Hell? How exci—”  
  
William shot him a look.  
  
“—disturbing,” Isaac finished.  
  
“The both of you aren’t helping.” William took charge. “Sytry, bring the Empress some tea.” Sytry’s back straightened, no longer on the defensive. He rushed into the kitchen, thankfully taking the knife with him. “Isaac, see to it that Miss Mollins… no, Mrs. Caxton is looked after.”  
  
William shot up from the chair.    
  
“You’re going somewhere?” Isaac asked.  
  
William turned and gave his friend and former dorm mistress one last, lingering look. “I need to find someone.”

* * *

The tavern was thick with smoke, people, and the smell of ale. William hovered near the door until he caught the attention of the bartender.  
  
“Ah, Master Twining.” He winked. “You’ll find what you’re looking for up the stairs and to the left.”  
  
William tipped his head and strode forward. He wasn’t sure if the bartender had realized by this time that his Master Twining wasn’t a patron of this particular club. In fact, the bartender was losing money each time William managed to find his way to the dingy establishment.  
  
Let him think that, William thought as he climbed the creaking staircase. He found his target in a pitiful little room, crammed against a green table and looking robbed. Which, of course, was likely the case.  
  
“Young master?” Kevin looked cheerily from behind a handful of cards. The other men in the room did not so much as spare him a glance.  
  
“Order them out.”  
  
“Just one more game.”  
  
“Now!”  
  
Kevin looked crestfallen, but he lay the cards on the table like he was folding, and cast his eyes on the other men. “It’s been quite the evening, but I’m afraid I have some duties to attend to.”  
  
At first, nothing happened. The men around the table were silent, and the noise from the tavern below came drifting up. William heard indistinct chatter, the clinking of class, and hearty laughter. He'd never liked places like these. They were altogether too noisy, and even if this place was one of the more respectable ones, he really felt more comfortable in among drunk and gambling magicians than drunk and gambling magistrates.

The next thing happened like clockwork. One by one, all of the men folded, all of them rose, and left the room.  
  
“Well? Do you want to play a game?” Kevin was inviting him to take a seat, but William did not leave his place by the door.  
  
“You felt it, didn’t you? A portal from Hell inside your barrier.”  
  
“Yes,” Kevin ascertained. “However, it had a pillar’s signature on it, so I let it through.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“Tell you what?”  
  
“That the pillars could enter through the barrier.”  
  
Kevin closed his eyes softly. When he opened them again, they were mirthless and resigned. “Because I saw how much his absence was hurting you, and I thought—”  
  
“You put us at risk.” He didn't know why he sounded so angry. Perhaps it was the fact that Kevin did not seem to think it made much of a difference that certain demons could get through his barrier. And yet, as William feared, the real reason Kevin did not seem to mind the imperfect barrier was because he'd known all along that—  
  
“You were not at risk, William. Solomon’s pillars will always obey—”  
  
“You know what I meant!” William snapped. “There might be humans there. What if they’re attacked and I’m not able to—”  
  
“In that case,” Kevin interrupted, “there’s another angelic presence guarding that house.”  
  
“In case you haven’t noticed,” William cut in. “Sytry’s sealed his powers.” He racked his mind for how Kevin could have noticed his discontent. Hadn't he been more clever in hiding it?  “Besides,” he added, “it looks like you won’t have to count on Dantalion entering a portal. He’s apparently taken over Hell!”  
  
As Kevin's eyes lit up, William recounted Maria’s story. Kevin listened quietly, his face not exactly sympathetic, but not exactly uncaring either.  
  
“I see,” Kevin said. He brought a finger to his chin, and it seemed he were lost in thought. “That barrier may need to be stronger now.”  
  
There was a heavy silence between them. William could hear the noise from the tavern rising up in waves.  
  
“What is this really about, Kevin?” William asked, looking around. “Why are you always out in places like these?”  
  
Uriel’s eyes darted upwards, then down again.  
  
“Please tell me,” William said, softer this time.  
  
Instead of answering, Kevin rose from his seat and navigated the small, cramped room until he was by his side. “Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?”  
  
London wasn’t exactly quiet at this time of night, but there was less noise than the tavern. It appeared Kevin was guiding him home, but he kept a leisurely pace. Just when William thought Kevin had forgotten his question, he said, “I thought I could win some money tonight.” There was a pause, and then, “for you."  
  
“Honestly,” William huffed. A cool breeze touched his face and he realized it was the first sense of calm he’d had since the portal appeared. “You don’t need to do that. And I’ve promised to pay you back.”  
  
“You don’t need to pay me back.” It sounded so final, so insistent, that William had to bite his lip to keep from refusing.  
  
“Maybe I don’t, then,” he said, “but going out every night? Is there something you don’t like about staying at that place?” Not that William always wanted to, either, but it was more economical to stay at the house during the night. Safer, too.  
  
“I just want to be of use to you,” Kevin said briskly. William stopped in his tracks.  
  
“What do you mean?” As far as he could tell, nothing between them had changed. And yet, little things had started to happen. Kevin would be gone to play servant for hire most of the day. And at night, he'd be off to play games of chance. At first, William had thought it was normal and necessary. 

But now, it seemed excessive.

“It’s just.” Kevin gave him that small, easy smile that never failed to make William’s heart quake. “You won’t have much use for a butler at Oxbridge.”  
  
The breeze against William’s face suddenly became too chilly.  
  
“Don’t be silly,” William contended. “I don’t need a butler, per say,” he went on, studying the surprised expression on Kevin’s face, “but I’ll need a friend.”  
  
Kevin’s expression lightened.  
  
“And of course,” William continued, “who will lead Sunday Mass there?”  
  
“You do have a point,” Kevin concluded. His voice was full of good humor, but William knew there was always something Kevin—or rather, Uriel—was hiding. It was like he stuffed secrets up his sleeves, like there was some sort of comfort in carrying them around, in having them ready should an opportunity present itself.  
  
But, William guessed, there was a kind of loneliness to it, too.  
  
“This feels nostalgic, doesn’t it?” William mused as they crossed a bridge. The streetlights illuminated the inky blackness of the river and for a moment it felt as if he was seventeen again and he hadn’t learned the truth about Kevin’s true identity yet and demons and angels and all things in-between were still hounding him for that damned ring.  
  
“Now that you mention it, it does.” Kevin stopped to stare at the rippling water and William tracked his gaze to the viscous currents that flowed beneath the bridge. “I should have told you sooner,” he said. William was about to come up with a snappy reply when Kevin’s next words caught him off guard. “About who I really was. It would have saved you from all that…”  
  
“No,” William interrupted. “You shouldn’t have. Besides…” William looked off in the distance. It was a hazy night, but he imagined there were stars blinking out there somewhere. “I would have looked like such a fool if you'd told me sooner. Can you imagine? Uriel? Is that an Italian name?” He laughed. "I knew nothing about angels!"  
  
There was a long, deep silence between them both. It was getting impossible for William to tell the Kevins apart in his memories of childhood. Their habits and quirks seemed so distinct from one another’s, and yet as a child he hadn’t been able to tell the difference.  
  
“Let’s go to that place you showed me again some day soon,” William finally said. “The one with the tea you liked.”  
  
“O-of course.” Kevin seemed to have been caught off guard by the suggestion. “But I thought you hated herbal tea.”  
  
“I’ll order the coffee.” He stood there, pensively watching the ripples of the river. “And that reminds me…”  
  
It might have been the tone of his voice, but Kevin looked straight at William, surprise and worry finally blotting out his butler’s perfect poker face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about being emperor, Dantalion was starting to realize, was that you were never left alone.  
  
He’d only been allowed a few hours of personal time. Now he walked back into the chamber, and the weight of a thousand weary stares seemed to compound just a step ahead of him. All the grandest demons from every corner of Hell had gathered to see their new Emperor. They bowed to him, horns and claws and snouts and tusks perfectly reverent, and Dantalion felt like he had somehow traded places with someone else and was living a life that hadn't been meant for him.

That unnerving feeling followed him all the way to the throne, and lingered even when the crowd launched into conversation. It was a fluttering of verbiage, of questions and postulations and hopes and fears and trivial business, of rights and feuds and treaties and minor flirtations.  
  
Once, a while back, Astaroth had had him accompany her to one of these types of gatherings. Dantalion had been expecting boredom. What he’d hadn’t expected was the meeting to be so civil.  
  
“Will I really be expected to preside over those if I’m elected?” he’d asked when they’d returned to the airship. Astaroth had thrown her cloak over the sofa and helped herself to a glass of bourbon.  
  
“Not all of them,” she sighed into her drink. “His Majesty doesn’t. Although,” she said, “it may just be time for an interim ruler to step in.” She had seemed lost in thought, no longer the fierce and unforgiving demon that she’d been at the council table. Here, in her private room, she picked at her hair and kicked up her boots. What Dantalion would realize later was that Astaroth had been planning.  
  
“It will be good for your image, Sire,” a servant was saying, snapping him out of his daydream, “and the nobles have come to expect such things.”  
  
Dantalion sighed. “Very well.”  
  
“We will begin the preparations immediately.”  
  
The servant bowed and hurried out of the room, its appendages nearly scraping against the door frame and Dantalion wondered what he had just agreed to.

* * *

 William had always been a fan of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. He’d been enamored with the man’s work on mathematics. He’d always liked geometry for its solid realism and algebra for its intrinsic functionality.And yet, sitting there, contemplating the wormwood tea, he wondered if he should have read up on Dodgson’s or—as he was also known by—Carroll’s other works as well. Hadn’t the girl in his story been offered a choice of some kind that transported her to an otherworldly place? Or was there a pill that had changed her, had let her get through a door that humans normally couldn’t go through?

Kevin and the others hovered around him, eyes expectant and worried. Even Maria eyed him with concern, as if she were dorm mother again.

“I really cannot recommend this course of action.” Kevin spoke distractedly, his eyes darting to the fire as if waiting for a ghost to appear.

“It’s dangerous, William!” Sytry also sounded his disapproval.  

“I know, but…” William had spent the walk to and from the pub weighing the options in his mind. He’d spent another half hour trying to convince his friends of it. “I have to do something.”

“Why not just go to Dantalion now?” Isaac asked, for once the lone voice of calm in the room. “You could always ask to see him, couldn’t you?”

William felt his teeth grind. That had always been an option, hadn’t it? Why hadn’t he just simply walked into Hell and demanded an audience? It’s complicated, he wanted to say, but he didn’t think Isaac would understand.

“I need to know more,” William said. “More about his relationship with Solomon, more about his past. Perhaps I’m missing something.”

“It does sound strange that Dantalion would choose now of all times to take the throne,” Kevin said as he crossed his arms, “but I still don’t think you should risk it.”

There was probably a point William could have argue for on that, but it was Maria who swayed his attention before he could say anything.“That look you gave just now,” she said, her voice far away, “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner.”

She’d changed into more sensible clothing, but her face was still youthful and bright, clever even, and she looked like she had a secret.

“W-what do you mean?” William stammered.

She grinned. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Wha-what is this all about?” Isaac’s voice rose above the others and soon everyone’s attention was on him once again.

William could almost feel the blush threatening to overtake him.“Nothing, nothing at all.” William cut a hand through the air as if to banish the thought. How had Maria caught on so quickly? Were his feelings for Dantalion really so obvious? “Anyway,” he said as he regained his composure, “I’ve done it before. There’s no need for anyone to worry.”

Still, they gave him apprehensive looks.

“But this will be the first time you’ll be doing it in this way,” Uriel reminded him.

And he was right to hesitate, William knew. He wouldn’t only be drinking one cup; instead, William had proposed a series of smaller doses. It was risky, he knew, but he also knew there was so much to Solomon and Dantalion’s relationship, so much that he might have missed.

“F-fine.” It was Sytry who finally broke the silence. “If you want this, then I’ll support you.”

“Please be careful,” Maria said.

“It’ll take some time to prepare." Uriel turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll start on it right away.

* * *

It was wasteful for demons to imprison their own. In general, Hell did not have prisons or jails or cells of any kind. There was little need when it was easier to just kill one’s enemy and no laws of any kind preventing one from doing so. The amount of magic needed to seal a demon’s powers was also considerably expensive. And yet, it seemed, Camio had ended up in just such a place: a dank little cell with a crude wooden bench. As if that weren’t enough, they’d clamped manacles around his wrists and ankles. And yet, the most constricting feeling was the subtle pressure of a sealing spell—like an invisible weight that kept pressing down on him.  
  
He’d given up fighting it by now.  
  
He’d given up a lot of things. Something told him that Maria was still okay, but the traces of John seemed fragile at best.  
  
“Your Majesty,” she bit her lip, and let out a breath, as if she were sighing, or laughing. “Or rather, your ex-Majesty. How should I address you?”  
  
He’d known of Empusa, but only from a distance, the way a hunter knows of large game animals and their vital spots. Once, she’d tried to cozy up to him at a ball, but he remembered how her saccharine sweetness had given way to spite when he refused her a dance.  
  
“I’m not your type,” he’d said, “and you’re not mine.”  
  
She’d walked away, her anger only apparent in her haughty gait and her screams of frustration.  
  
He hadn’t liked her then, and he certainly didn’t like her now.  
  
“A prisoner has no rank,” he said curtly.  
  
“I guess you’re right, Camio.” She said it with a smile, but her tone was sad, her eyes off him, obsessing over her fingernails. Like she couldn’t look him in the eye.  
  
He didn’t care if she was trying to play cute or coy or clever. He only wanted answers. Answers and Maria.  
  
“Something doesn’t make sense to me.”  
  
“Oh?” She feigned disinterest, her eyes still on her nails or the crud underneath.  
  
“Why would you, and the other pure demons, support Dantalion?” He’d counted on the instability in their ranks, but he’d never accounted for a Nephilim rallying pure demons together. “Have the pure demons finally accepted the Nephilim, or is it just another desperate grab for power?”  
  
“Accept Nephilim? As what?” Now she was laughing, her mocking tone echoing off stone and metal and magic. “You’d think we’d really see them as worthy as ourselves? Don’t be ridiculous!”  
  
“Then why—”  
  
This time she looked up at him. The humor in her voice wasn’t in her eyes.  
  
“Revenge.”  
  
Camio staggered at the words. He’d hardly warranted such a thing, and especially, to get behind a Nephilim in order to execute such a revenge. It was like trying to extinguish a match with an ocean.  
  
“And what,” he said, “may I ask, was the breaking point for them? To see a half-human on the throne? Or was it our lack of haste to restore their realm?” He’d tried. Of course he’d tried. But the West wouldn’t go back to its former glory overnight, or over a course of months or years. Foundations could and towns and castles could with magic, but the West had needed something stronger. Something like starting over. Something like shedding itself with rigid notions of purity. “Or was it the Empress? Because she's a Nephilim?” His voice turned cold and his skin crawled at this woman's petty hate and judgements.  
  
“Oh, Camio,” she lavished the words with superficial sweetness, “don’t be so self-centered. The pure demons don’t give a damn about the throne now.”  
  
He was about to argue that point, that they had cared up until their candidate had burst through Hell’s gates with wings on his back, but she continued, “if only you could have given us what we’d really wanted. Then we’d have been on your side back there.”  
  
“Haven’t I tried to fix your home? Haven’t I tried—”  
  
But she was shushing him, looking back at her nails again and smiling a small, cruel, smile. “Our home? You think this is our home?” She motioned to the rock walls, to the dingy cell. “Oh, no, no, no. This is _your_ home, Camio.”  
  
She was shaking her head and he was looking at her, the realization dawning on him.  
  
She let out a cackle, like the screech of a hawk as it dives for its prey. “We’ll never be ruled by that Nephilim. We’ll go back to our true home.”  
  
“And just how,” Camio asked, although he thought he knew the answer by now, “will you do that?”  
  
“Didn’t I tell you, darling?” She looked at him, doe-eyed innocence in her voice and a wicked grin on her lips. “Revenge.”

* * *

 "We don't know what sorts of effects the wormwood will have on you," Kevin was trying his best to keep his voice low and quiet.

"The first time I drank it, it was more like a dream," William said. "I drifted from one perspective to the next. But it was a stronger dose that time."

The steam from the wormwood tea drifted innocuously from the cup of china. The smell reminded William of the garden wall back in Pembrokeshire, rich with earth and moss and the fresh, sonorous smell of rain.

"I'm afraid," William caught himself saying. "Not of the side-effects," he said quickly to silence Kevin's fears. "Just... what will happen if I can't see Solomon's memories anymore?"

Kevin stared pensively at the cup. The early morning light made him look so strange and pale and William wondered how he had ever mistaken this Kevin for the one he'd known in his childhood. "Will you tell Isaac I'm sorry about the delay in his tutoring? Normally I'd tell him myself, but I don't want him to worry."

"Of course," Kevin said, or started to say, but William had already brought the cup to his lips and he was falling, falling fast.

The first thing he saw was silver moonlight cutting across pillars of stone. It was some sort of structure, he realized, ancient as the ruins in his textbooks, but somehow, instinctively, he knew it had no foundations, no roof nor entrance nor exit. The moon that hung lazily above wasn't the moon he knew, and the darkness beyond its light was pure and heavy and wanting.

Something hummed softly to him, something that sounded like wind through an attic door.

These were his… no, these were Solomon’s pillars. Some grand and tall, some crumbling to almost nothing.  
  
He strode up to one and touched its cool surface. It did not feel like stone, more like the surface of glass, smooth and breakable. The humming grew louder like a pulse in one's eardrums after a shock. William placed his palm upon it and realized it was a heartbeat.  
  
Who are you? William wondered. Camio, Sytry, Dantalion?  
  
He didn’t have time to dwell, however. Another set of footsteps was fast approaching. William looked up and saw an outline he had only seen in memories and dreams.  
  
“So you made it.” Solomon’s mouth quirked. In the moonlight, William could only see how the shadows cut across his chin, how he might have been smiling or frowning and how little of a difference it would have made.  
  
“Solomon, Dantalion… he…”  
  
“I know.” Solomon looked away. Out toward the moonlight. Into the nothingness. “He took over Hell.”  
  
“We—I need to rescue him.”  
  
“From what?” Solomon’s eyes glowed in the moonlight, the same green William had seen in his own reflection thousands of times.  
  
“He’s in danger!”  
  
“Does he want to be rescued?”  
  
William scowled. “I don’t have time for this, old man. Just tell me how to get him back.”  
  
“You inherited my wisdom, along with my memories. You should know.” William knew that Solomon’s eyes shouldn’t glow like that, but they did, glowing in the darkness as if they were street lamps, illuminating not a patch of ground, but just themselves. And yet, perhaps this place did not follow the known laws of thermodynamics.  
  
“Where are we?” he demanded.  
  
“This place…?” Solomon looked around. He touched one of the pillars and this time William could see that he was really smiling. “This place is my sanctuary.”  
  
“Yes, but where—or what—is it?”  
  
Solomon thought for a moment. “Perhaps it’s easiest to call it a secret room. It exists in my palace, but only I know how to get to it. I, and you, of course.”  
  
It was barely satisfying, but William didn't think he'd get a better answer. “Fine,” he said, his voice oddly devoid of any annoyance. “Show me Dantalion. Your memories. Anything you have.”  
  
Solomon sighed. He turned away and his face was obscured by shadows.  
  
“Perhaps you should explore a bit first.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“This is the world of my memories,” came Solomon’s quiet voice from the shadows. “You may live in them for a while. Just know that what you do will make no difference in your own world. It’s just a memory, after all.”  
  
“Even if that’s the case, I have to know if there’s something I can do. Something I can…” he almost said remember. As if he were finally accepting the fact that Solomon’s memories were his own.  
  
“Well, then.” Solomon turned back to face him. His eyes were the same impossible bright green. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”  
  
The ground beneath him spilled out, pouring stone and pillar into a black nothingness.

* * *

William wondered if he’d been jolted out of the memories before they’d even begun. He’d been laying darkness, and it felt like the floor felt like it had fallen on top of him. He moved slightly and something heavy fell between his arm.  
  
“Idiot.” He heard a muffled sigh from somewhere in the darkness and he tried to lift his head.  
  
“Don’t move! Just wait!” The voice reprimanded him. He stayed still and felt the crushing darkness on top of him start to shift. Then, little by little, the darkness began to brighten from a murky din to shallow lightness. Finally, he was able to move again, to look up, to look at—  
  
“I told you that would happen!” It was Dantalion, but William had never seen _this_ Dantalion before. He looked irritated and tired and so much like William had felt when he’d first met the demon. “You really couldn’t wait to get that last book off the shelf, could you?” Dantalion offered him a hand and William took it. At once, he was on his feet again, in a dangerously huge pile of books.  
  
Dantalion was grumbling, something about how he had just organized them alphabetically, and William couldn’t help himself from smiling.  
  
“You look ridiculous.”  
  
Dantalion glared at him. “And it’s your fault!” He began to pick up the books by hand, still grumbling about why he should be the one to do such a chore.  
  
Seeing Dantalion in such a state forced William to remember when he’d commanded the demons into all sorts of chores and favors for him. Dantalion hadn’t been dressed quite the same, and yet  irritability had rippled off of him like the anxiety off a horses’ skin before it began a race. William wanted so badly to keep on teasing him, to live in the tiny, happy moment, but there was something he needed to find and there was no time to play anymore.  
  
“Dantalion,” he began rather seriously. “If you were king of Hell, what would you do?” The words spilled out, but they were his and not his: the voice was softer than his own, but the words themselves were stranger, flowing into one another with only the hard breaths stuck at the back of his throat for pause. Definitely not English.  
  
Nevertheless, Dantalion looked at him like someone who was used to outlandish questions being thrown at him without a moment’s notice. “Try not to destroy it.” He was still buried in the books, replacing armfuls of them back onto the shelves.  
  
“I mean it,” William continued. “What would you do with it?”  
  
Dantalion paused for a moment, a stack of books balancing precariously in his arm. “Try not to destroy it,” he repeated, “and try to make amends.”  
  
“Amends?”  
  
Dantalion frowned at him. It wasn’t the sort of frown that meant he was unhappy. It was the sort of frown that meant he had thought about such a thing before, that he had been content to hold it in his head and never tell a soul.  
  
“If I were king, I’d end the creation of Nephilim.”  
  
William studied him. Nothing about Dantalion’s consonance had changed, but he seemed less guarded. Solomon’s bond with Dantalion had been strong, William surmised, stronger even than—  
  
“Let’s go for a walk,” William announced.  
  
This time, Dantalion looked at him with surprise. “A walk?”  
  
“Around the palace,” William said, “it’s just, I need a breath of fresh air.”  
  
Dantalion shook his head. “You stay inside too much, Solomon.” Just as suddenly, Dantalion had changed into clothing more befitting of the times.  
  
“You lead the way.”  
  
Before William had learned about his connection to Solomon, the king had always thought the man as a legend. It seemed silly to make such a distinction, he’d always thought of most of the Bible as a myth before, but as for Solomon, he’d always been a legend. A legend like King Arthur.  
  
Perhaps it was because his father and uncle had actually found evidence of Solomon—or at least, his ring—during their archeological travels.  
  
Or, perhaps it was because the Solomon from the Bible had just seemed too wise, too clever, too unabashedly flawed to be completely made up. A legend, of course, was always dipped in fantasy, and yet the core of it was always a bit true, too.  
  
Walking through Solomon’s palace now, William couldn’t distinguish the fact from the fiction. How much of Solomon’s life had he assumed was made up, and how much had he refused to believe was true even when the truth walked side by side with him?  
  
“It’s quiet today,” Dantalion spoke, more hushed this time, as if his voice would disturb something.  
  
“How loud can such a society be?” William asked nonchalantly. “There’s barely time for leisure, isn’t there?”  
  
Dantalion looked at him cluelessly.  
  
“Don’t answer that.”  
  
William studied the grounds. They were not as grand as he had thought they would be; they compared to neither the palaces he’d seen in Hell, nor even the mansions he’d been privy to in the human world. Most of the architecture was composed of simple straight lines and right angles. Which wasn’t to say it wasn’t impressive in its own right. Many of the wings of the palace were open air pavilions, the roofs of which were held up by columns, akin to what the Romans had built. And yet, the similarities seemed to end there, as the grand fortresses reminded William of his own English heritage with their square stones and parapets. Although he could place it neither in the Classical nor Medeival period. It was all its own.  
  
At last, Dantalion led him to a sort of opening, enclosed on all sides by the castle walls. Guards stood in the shadows at the far end and William guessed Dantalion must have been a constant figure in the palace, because they did not approach the two of them. A few trees grew in the space, although William would hardly have called it a garden.  
  
Still, there was a simplistic beauty to it, like a lone island in the middle of a lake.  
  
William tried to prevent himself from making an inane comment. In truth, he was incredibly interested to see how this ancient society worked, but admitting that he wasn’t the king of it—or rather, that he was inhabiting its king’s body—seemed like a rule he absolutely could not break.  
  
_I’m here to find out more about Dantalion,_ he told himself, but he doubted it would keep him from getting distracted.

* * *

The ball was lavish, as far as celebrations in Hell went. Screens of flower petals hung like sails in the grand hall, a tapestry as lovely to the eyes as it was to smell. Wine flowed not from pitchers but from fountains embedded in the walls. One only needed to tilt their cup to have their drink refilled. And yet, the object of everyone’s gaze was the stunning chandelier, illuminated with the light of fallen souls.  
  
It was what Dantalion had agreed to. And it was boring him to death.

He’d always found such things suffocating. Even when Astaroth had invited him to balls, he’d always slunk away, preferring the cool breeze of the balconies to the fiery interrogations on the ballroom floor.  
  
But it was nearly impossible to sneak away as Emperor. The elegantly dressed demons observed him timidly, their eyes always on him. He was sequestered on all sides by them, but also safe up on the dais. And yet, he couldn’t stay safe forever. He descended to the ballroom floor, a crystal glass filled with some kind of simpering liquid in his hand.  
  
None of those demons that looked so keenly at him wanted his gaze to fall on them. He walked through the crowd, observant of their bows, and the silence that followed in his wake. Were they truly so afraid of him? They’d always cozied up when he’d been Lucifer’s Nephilim, always trailing behind him as if he could grant them an audience with the Emperor. But none of them seemed to want an audience with the Emperor today. None except—  
  
“Your Majesty! May I have this dance?” Lamia jumped out of the crowd. Her auburn dress matched the color of her hair. It was a departure from the dress she’d worn at her mother’s side; _this_ dress had been trimmed with black lace and she looked the slightest bit grown up in it.  
  
“Not now, Lamia,” he whispered.  
  
“Why not?” Even though she was close to a queen now, her whine was still that of a child’s.  
  
“I—” For the first time, he could not think of a reason to refuse her. He scanned the crowd, looking for one.  
  
He found two reasons, though both of them hardly worthy of a diversion, and made a beeline.  
  
Lucifel Rofocale and Leviathan, who had been preoccupied refilling their classes from the cascade in the wall, bowed to him as he approached.  
  
“And what news do you have for me?”    
  
It seemed to take the both of them a moment to adjust to the question and by that time, they were practically flabbergasted.  
  
Leviathan, dressed predictably in aquamarine, stammered, “Y-Your Majestyy, are you sure you want to discuss politics now? It is a ball.”  
  
Dantalion faked a smile. “I’m not like my predecessor.” He was aware that Lamia had joined his side, and that she was also quietly listening to the conversation.  
  
“Very well.” Leviathan’s gaze fell to Lucifel.  
  
The demon cleared his throat before beginning. “We’ve reviewed a list of candidates to act as wardens of the East and West, Your Majesty,” Lucifel said. “Shall we proceed with the matter?”  
  
“You’ve narrowed it down to a few names?” Dantalion asked. He’d remembered the discussion at the council meeting, although it hardly taken much shape at that time.  
  
“Yes, Your Majesty.”  
  
“May I see?”  
  
Before Lucifel could hand him the list, which was conveniently stuffed in one of the many pockets of his jacket, a hurried tone rose above the crowd. “You really must reconsider, Your Majesty.”  
  
Dantalion turned back, shooting whoever it was a glare.  
  
Beelzebub had come through the crowd, but one look at Dantalion stopped him in his tracks. “I only meant that choosing a ruler for those domains would be to overstep your bounds. The East and West have already begun the process for succession—”  
  
“And who is overstepping their bounds now, Duke Beelzebub?” Gilgamesh’s smooth voice cut in. He seemed to materialized at Dantalion’s side, just as he always did. “Last time I checked, the Emperor ruled Hell, not you, Your Grace.”  
  
“The East and West are sovereign kingdoms loyal to the Emperor.” Beelzebub’s words were guarded, but not cowering. “It would not be wise for us to choose for them. It would set a precedence.”  
  
“And is that the advice that you gave Camio before he was betrayed by the West?”  
  
Beelzebub’s eyes blazed, but the rest of him remained calm and composed. The music continued to drone in the background and the figures on the floor continued to dance, but it all seemed so far away from Dantalion and the ocean of tension he was drowning in.  
  
“I see that my council is not needed at this particular moment,” Beelzebub resigned, bowing and shuffling away into the crowd.  
  
“That overweening maggot,” Lamia hissed under her breath when her father was out of sight.  
  
Lucifel sighed. “Duke Beelzebub feels lonely. He is the last of the Four Kings, after all.”  
  
“Asta is asleep, not dead!”  
  
“That is true, Your Grace.”  
  
“Not only lonely,” it was Gilgamesh who spoke. He drank from the glass in his hand, and seemed to savor the taste. “Threatened.”  
  
Even Lucifel and Levathan seemed unnerved by his presence. They bowed and excused themselves, just remembering to produce the list for Dantalion’s review.  
  
In the span of that moment, the musicians had kicked up a new song and Lamia had started gazing intently at him again.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted.  
  
“May I have this dance, Your Grace?”  
  
Gilgamesh had lowered his hand down to Lamia’s height. She seemed shirked and disbelieving, looking to Dantalion not for a dance this time, but for help.  
  
“Just don’t try anything,” Dantalion muttered under his breath as he left the scene, the list still firmly in his hand.

* * *

“Why did you do that?” Lamia hissed. Gilgamesh had swept her onto the dance floor, and while it was hardly unusual for her to dance with high standing demons, she was still irritated Gilgamesh had stolen her chance to dance with Dantalion.  
  
“I needed to speak with you,” Gilgamesh answered. He did not seem to be apologetic about her missed opportunity. Instead, he kept up with the rhythm of the dance, guiding her steps with surprising ease.  
  
“Well, speak!”  
  
“Of all of His Majesty’s subjects, it seems the two of us are the most loyal, wouldn’t you agree?”  
  
She couldn’t guess at Gilgamesh’s aim just yet, but she knew she really hated his smile.  
  
“Obviously I am loyal to the Emperor. He was Asta’s candidate, and mine as well.” He extended his arm and she fell into a twirl. However much she disliked him, she had to admit he was a natural dancer.  
  
“You’re talented on your feet,” he said when they joined up together again.  
  
“I was about to say the same about you,” she admitted. She’d only taken up dance to impress Dantalion, being too young and too foolish to realize that Dantalion did not care too much for dancing at all.  
  
Perhaps she was still fresh and young and foolish.  
  
He seemed to read her mind. “And how is your betrothal to the Emperor going?”  
  
Lamia flushed. “Like I said, I am loyal to the Emperor and his wishes.” She hadn’t realized that Gilgamesh had even paid attention to her little flirtation. Alright… maybe it was a _big_ flirtation, but either way it was disconcerting.  
  
Gilgamesh seemed satisfied with that answer, at least for a moment. He led her in the steps, their combined talents making up for their impractical height difference.  
  
Lamia focused on the music, the warmth of the dance, and the rush of emotions that seeing Dantalion always gave her. Would he ever acknowledge her feelings?  
  
She’d begged Asta when she was younger. She’d moped and cried and languished around the airship, diminutively looking out the window.  
  
“I can’t make Dantalion your husband,” Asta had said matter-of-factly.  
  
“But you’re one of the most powerful demons in Hell,” she reminded her mother. “What good is being a powerful demon if you can’t get what you want?”  
  
Asta had given her a crooked smile. “When you find the answer, tell me.”  
  
It felt like too long ago since she’d spoken with Asta. She desperately wanted to talk to her mother now instead of _this_ man.  
  
“And what about you?” she began when the silence between them began to be too much.  
  
“Me?” he seemed intrigued. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t betrothed to the Emperor.”  
  
“No. That’s not what I meant.” Before he could respond, she said, “you’ve questioned my loyalty, now it’s my turn. What do you want from Dantalion?” Not the _the Emperor._ Just Dantalion.  She hoped he would notice the difference.  
  
“A household member’s relationship with his master is the most sacred bond in Hell.”  
  
“Nothing is sacred in Hell.”  
  
“It seems you are the type that can’t be pleased by words alone, Your Grace.” They spun around, one last time, and then the song faded. Their embrace broke and Lamia was about to swiftly make her way back to Dantalion, but Gilgamesh came up to meet her again. “Allow me to show you my loyalty.”  
  
She searched the crowd, but Dantalion was nowhere in sight.  
  
“Is this your loyalty?” she asked, aware that her voice had become shrill and impatient. “To whisk me away from Dantalion?”  
  
In some ways, she almost wished that Dantalion hadn’t become Emperor. He’d grown a bit more regal, yes, but he’d traded that for the kind-natured demon she’d known when she was little. She’d fallen in love with that Dantalion. Not with the one who gushed over William Twining, not with the one who enjoyed Gilgamesh’s company. Lamia skirted the edge of the crowd, admiring the way the demoness’ dresses fanned out, the way the jewels sparkled in their hair, the way they seemed so much more grown up than she was.  
  
Would Dantalion like a woman like that? A demon all done up in finery? Or would he prefer someone like Asta—tough as nails and radiant and fearless?  
  
“It truly is a grand ball.” Gilgamesh’s comment brought her back to reality. “Too bad the Emperor does not seem to enjoy it.”  
  
No, Dantalion didn’t like such demons at all. He liked stubborn kings and stubborn boys and he basked in their charismatic glow.  
  
“Well, I’m waiting,” she said.  
  
“Waiting? For what?”  
  
“For you to show me your loyalty.”  
  
Gilgamesh smirked. “Enjoy the dance, Your Grace. Such things can wait until the morning.”  
  
He took his leave of her and strode out into the crowd.  
  
She might have rejoiced in the fact that Gilgamesh had finally left her, but his absence only made her feel more alone.

* * *

The music blared on, but Dantalion had finally found an excuse to get away. By the time he reached a private room, the list was crumpled and creased in his hand. He stretched on a chaise lounge and unraveled the list in his hands, but he was not sure what he’d been expecting.  
  
He hadn’t known he’d been followed.  
  
“My apologies, Your Majesty-“ A servant burst in, shortly followed by—  
  
“Your Majesty!” Beelzebub glided in, his white robes trailing behind him. “I must speak with you.”  
  
Dantalion looked over the demon; his confrontation with Gilgamesh had not left him in a good mood, but Beelzebub did not appear angry so much as seem, as the aforementioned had put it, threatened.  
  
“I’m listening,” Dantalion said evenly as he offered Beelzebub an adjacent seat.  
  
“First,” he said, “you must forgive my impertinence from before. It has taken some time to transition to a new ruler.”  
  
Once upon a time, Dantalion might have commented that the tables had turned, that it was Beelzebub who now felt the impertinent one, but there were far more important things to do in Hell than point out hypocrites.  
  
“You had a point,” Dantalion responded dryly. “It would set a precedence if I were to select leaders for those regions.”  
  
“Yes,” Beelzebub said, “although, that is not the matter I have to come discuss with you at the moment.”  
  
“And what would that be?”  
  
Beelzebub looked down as if gathering his thoughts.  
  
His entire demeanor had changed from the ballroom and Gilgamesh was nowhere in sight, two things that Dantalion suspected were related.  
  
“You need an advisor, Your Majesty.”  
  
“The council advises me.” It was a curt response and one that Dantalion hoped he would not have to explain.  
  
“Someone closer to you than a council member.”  
  
“And who would that be?”  
  
“It is someone who has researched Hell for a number of years. He is well-versed in nuances of the factions, and his stance has remained mostly neutral until recently.”  
  
“And who is this?”  
  
“I…” Beelzebub seemed to hesitate, so Dantalion took his chance.  
  
“Perhaps you have not noticed, Duke Beelzebub, but I have an advisor.”  
  
“Gilgamesh.” There was a hint of disgust in Beelzebub’s voice, but it was buried so thoroughly that Dantalion almost didn’t catch it.  
  
“He has proved his loyalty.”  
  
“But Gilgamesh has never once bothered in the affairs of Hell. He thinks himself above us.”    
  
Now Dantalion saw Beelzebub’s ploy: he wanted a line drawn between Gilgamesh and himself. He couldn’t let that stand.  
  
“And yet you trust him enough to dance with your daughter.”  
  
He saw the blow register on Beelzebub’s face, as if he had not expected Dantalion would hit so low. Before he could recover, Dantalion launched another assault. “No, I don’t think supplanting Gilgamesh is your aim. You want a spy, a fly on the wall. Isn’t that how you touted Camio’s position?” Dantalion looked at him cooly. “You watched and waited until the dust settled and then you set him on the throne yourself.”  
  
There was no rage in Beelzebub’s face, only an icy coldness that was far more intimidating.    
  
“I meant what I said about Gilgamesh. Good evening, Your Majesty.” Beelzebub tipped his head, then excused himself.  
  
Siting in the newly found silence, Dantalion couldn’t tell if he felt victorious or exhausted. The night, the party, it all felt like too much. He ached to go back to Stratford, where things were simple and mundane. Simple and inconsequential. Simple and—  
  
But of course, he could never return there. There would be no point. No election. No William.  
  
The thought turned the blood in his veins to ice water. He knew himself well enough by now that he could make up excuses for thousands of years. Why not invite William to the palace? He’d be very fond of it, wouldn’t he?  
  
You can’t trust yourself, the voices resounded in his head.  
  
“Your Majesty, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Gilgamesh waltzed in with his usual flourish. In truth, Dantalion was glad for the distraction. Gilgamesh invited himself not on to a chair, not to the sofa, but to Dantalion’s lap.  
  
“The nobles will wonder where you are.”  
  
Gilgamesh stroked his chin. “But you don’t care, do you?” In the span of a moment, he had planted his lips on Dantalion’s throat.  
  
Dantalion felt himself go rigid. Gilgamesh’s scent was suffocating, an expensive cologne of spice and musk and sweetness that made him forget about telling him to get off.  
  
“I don’t like crowds,” Dantalion grumbled instead.  
  
Gilgamesh rose up, his knees planted between Dantalion’s thighs.  
  
“Duke Beelzebub seemed to be in quite the dower mood when I passed by. Did the two of you get into an argument?”  
  
“He wants your position,” Dantalion told him bluntly.  
  
Gilgamesh only smiled with that sage’s grin that hadn’t been happy in ages. “But would he know how to do this?”  
  
His hand rubbed against Dantalion’s crotch with the kind of constant rhythm that never failed to make Dantalion hard.  
  
“Do you intend to fuck me in every room in this palace?”  
  
“Consider it part of my job. I need to keep the Emperor-” He squeezed and the fabric between his hand and skin was suddenly too much for Dantalion. “Virile.”  
  
“Hurry up then. I need to get back.”  
  
Gilgamesh was on his knees in a second, and Dantalion’s slacks were undone in another second.  
  
He bit his lip as Gilgamesh took him in. Sex always smelled like this: heady, and sweet, and thick, like rain on a hot day. Dantalion pet Gilgamesh’s hair and let him lick where he pleased. Things were easier this way. With Gilgamesh’s head between his thighs, he didn’t have to think. He could give in to the warmth that mouth provided.  
  
Gilgamesh sucked a bit too hard and Dantalion let out a gasp.  
  
He gasped—but it was not to be. There was a knock at the door, and a servant’s voice filtered through the door. Dantalion’s head filled with tedious insinuations, knocking back the wave of pleasure. He kicked Gilgamesh away and rose unsteadily to his feet.

* * *

The small glass of brandy had grown warm in Maria’s hand. Occasionally, she sipped it, grateful for the looseness it gave her. She hadn’t bothered much with alcohol when she’d been human; alcohol had made her feel lonely, lonelier, than she already was. But in Hell that had changed. She’d celebrated her happiness with a toast, with champagne and the man she loved.  
  
Just thinking about Camio now, though, put her on edge again.  
  
“It was only a small dose,” the butler said. “I don't understand.” He seemed sure enough, but he looked on helplessly.

The other angel—or was he a demon?—fretted, hovering over William. “It’s been a whole day! Why hasn’t he woken up yet?”

"What should we do?" Isaac looked on.

Maria placed her glass aside and knelt beside the young man. "His breathing is fine," she said. "If you want him to awaken, smelling salts may do the trick."

"No, I couldn't pull him out now, not yet."  
  
Whatever the case, something told her William Twining would be fine. But would she? She’d thought she’d reached her happy ending. Years of waiting had taught her the value of patience. But now there were so many questions swirling around in her head. Would she even see Camio again? And now, as a demon, she’d have to live forever regretting any wrong choices she made.  
  
She stood up, quite suddenly, and then all eyes were on her.  
  
“Ms. Mollins?”  
  
“I’m off,” she said, trying to insert as much cheerfulness into her voice as she possibly could.  
  
“Off?” The butler said incredulously.  
  
“To find allies.”  
  
“To free Camio?” Isaac piped up.   
  
“To get him back on the throne," she answered sharply.   
  
Now they were all staring at her incredulously. Hadn’t she at least taught Mr. Morton not to gape?  
  
“Please thank William for the hospitality,” she said, before swiftly making for the entryway. Uriel was fast on her heels, but the most he could do was offer her a coat.  
  
“Are you sure you’ll be all right? You're welcome to stay here for as long as you need to,” he said. If she’d still been human, she wouldn’t have found the conversation odd in the least, but as a demon, she was bewildered as to why he cared. Or had he played the part of the butler for far too long?  
  
“I’ve faced angels and harpies,” she reminded him, “but waiting around helplessly is much more frightening that all of those things. It'd rather not do it again.” She tilted her head and tried to give him a reassuring smile. She couldn’t quite tell if it had done the trick before she turned without looking back.  William Twining had certainly found an odd assortment of friends.


	4. Chapter 4

“I really like that face of yours when you try to hold back,” Gilgamesh chuckled. His voice was thick like cream, sweet, and dangerously good. Dantalion felt himself shiver as a finger traveled down the slick sweat on his back. He could move closer, into that maelstrom that was Gilgamesh's liquid whispers and honeyed promised. But he turned over and shrugged away from the touch instead.

His feet touched the floor and the sheets slipped off in a rustling whisper. He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss the feeling of sheets; as Emperor, there was almost no time to lay lazily in bed (although, of course, his predecessor had done just that); and it seemed every demon in Hell wanted a piece of him. Ignoring Gilgamesh's sigh of displeasure, Dantalion made his way to the window. Outside, the promenade glistened in the light. He couldn't remember what it was made of. Salt, or diamonds, or something else. He'd liked it, so he'd kept it. That was what rulers did, didn't they? Kept things they liked, and ended things they didn't.

His gaze drifted beyond the promenade, to the outer walls, and beyond that. In a strange way, it felt like he was looking at the City of Dis for the first time. This view reminded him of how he had looked over all the buildings—at the land, cracked and broken as it was—and felt, for the first time in a very long time, that he had a place to belong to. But, he remembered how hard it had been to feel excitement over such a thing. Back then, he hadn’t been able to tell if he’d been happy or even sad. Perhaps it was the same sort of indifference that Gilgamesh claimed to know so well.  
  
But he didn’t quite feel that now as he stared out from one of the palace’s tower windows. Loneliness, yes, but not indifference. He was curious in a way, a strange combination of weariness and energy egging him on.  
  
Something pressed up against his naked back and then he felt arms encircling him. “Why don’t you go back to sleep? You hardly had any sleep last night.” Gilgamesh rubbed his chin against the side of his face and Dantalion felt his skin prickle.  
  
“I have a meeting with Behemoth soon,” Dantalion responded curtly.  
  
“He can wait,” Gilgamesh whispered as he left dry kisses along Dantalion’s shoulder. “You’re the Emperor, after all.”  
  
Dantalion smirked, but knew Gilgaemsh wouldn’t be able to see it. “By that logic, shouldn’t _you_ be the one to wait?” He spun around and took hold of Gilgamesh’s hands. It was almost like they were wrestling; he could feel the unsteady pressure in Gilgamesh’s grip, as if he were deciding whether or not to let him go or hold him down into submission.  
  
“Oh, but don’t you remember?” Gilgamesh used his strength to grapple with him, arms locked against his. Dantalion could feel his muscles, the heat of his skin, and he wanted to get lost in the sheets more than anything. “I’ve waited _very_ , _very_ long.” With each syllable, Gilgamesh took a step forward, until Dantlaion felt himself pressed up against the glass of the window. “I waited for you after the first apocalypse war, after you disappeared to the human world with that Solomon, after you became a grand duke.” Gilgamesh’s voice dripped with saccharine longing, but it made Dantalion feel more disgusted than appreciative. "And now you still keep me waiting."  
  
In a far off corner of his mind, Dantalion thought, _was this how I looked to William when I first met him? No wonder he rejected me._  
  
Then, as if sensing his discomfort —as if he reading his damned mind—Gilgamesh released him and spun on his heel. “Well, I see my services are no longer required, _Your Majesty._ ” With a snap of his fingers, he was fully clothed.

It was a neat trick. Dantalion would have to ask about it one day. Instead, he asked, “Where are you going?”  
  
“Somewhere to be.” Gilgamesh flashed him a smile and then he was gone. Dantalion stood there, bewildered for a few minutes, and then decided it would be best if he dressed before meeting Behemoth.

* * *

William was beginning to realize that sometimes things couldn't be solved by logic and careful analysis. Some things required time and tact and the careful wisdom of interpersonal skills.  
  
He’d been in Dantalion’s company for a few hours already, but there were no resounding hints about the demon’s past. No sure ways to convince the Dantalion of the present that what he was doing was a very bad idea. This Dantalion seemed comfortable in his presence, so much so that he never felt the need to strike up a conversation. _Of course,_ William thought, _Solomon has known Dantalion for much longer than I’ve known him. What else could there be to talk about?_  
  
And William, for his part, was having a hard time thinking of things to talk about. He couldn’t give himself away, after all. Even if the future would not change because of his actions, he’d lose Dantalion’s trust for sure.  
  
_You had it easy, Solomon_ , William found himself thinking, and almost like magic, Solomon’s own voice came into his head.  
  
_I did?_  
  
_So, you can speak to me, huh?_ Even the voice in his head sounded annoyed.  
  
_The wormwood has that effect, after all._  
  
Of course. It was like that time in the demon world, when Uriel had used his powers to fend off Empusa. He’d been able to speak to Dantlaion that time, even when a magical barrier and different dimensions had cut between them.

 _Interesting,_ although the voice in his head said _interesting_ like it would say _annoying_.  
  
What was more frustrating was that Solomon was watching his every move. Was he judging him? Waiting for him to screw up? William tried to ignore the fact and focus his attention to Dantalion again.  
  
They’d left the almost-garden and were shuffling through the colonnade. William stuck to cool shadows of the columns. It was terribly quiet here. Were palaces always so empty? Or was it just because this was Solomon's palace? He guessed it was mid-afternoon by the way the shadows fell and by some strange part of him, probably the being in Solomon’s body part, that was thirsty for tea.  
  
Dantalion seemed to have the same idea. He ushered him into a small room on the ground floor where a cup of tea had been left to cool.  
  
William helped himself to it. He tasted the crisp freshness of the herbs as they sang on his tongue, and tried to prepare himself for the bitter aftertaste. He couldn’t, of course. It smacked him hard, the same bitterness that had propelled him into Solomon’s world in the first place.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dantalion grin.  
  
“What is it?” He asked suspiciously, forgetting for a second that he was meant to play the part of Solomon.  
  
“It’s nothing.”  
  
“It’s always nothing,” William countered. “But you could at least tell me what you’re smiling about.”  
  
He took another sip, forgetting, perhaps, that it wasn’t the palatable tea he was used to. Another wave of bitterness washed over his tongue and he finally put the cup aside.  
  
“I should be going now,” Dantalion said, leaving the room.  
  
“Where do you—?” But before he could finish, a muffled whisper came from the back of the room. He turned, not realizing that anyone had been there before and almost fainted. A curtain had been drawn back and a half-dozen naked women now assaulted his vision.  
  
“Lord Husband,” one said, “shall we try again for a child?”  
  
William sat there, frozen and absolutely blank. Had the cup still been in his hand, it would have been in pieces by now.  
  
_The texts really do overestimate my prowess_ , he heard Solomon say in the back of his mind. _A hundred wives and concubines, was it?_ He heard a dry chuckle. _God blessed me with wisdom, not inhuman virility._  
  
One woman was pulling him toward the rest, to what must have been some kind of duplicating orgy. William felt like he would faint.  
  
“Do something!” He said aloud, not regretting that he alarmed one of the women. The one pulling at his clothing, however, was not deterred. “Why yes, Lord Husband, whatever you like.”  
  
William was aware of his robes coming off, of hands everywhere, just as the vision blacked out.

* * *

Three steps led down into the circular room. The many windows of the east-facing tower brightened the walls, revealing tapestries and scrolls. In the center sat a large table, and that was where Dantalion found the old general poring over a map of the Underworld.

“Ah, Your Majesty,” Behemoth said, “shall we begin?”

Dantalion strode over and stared at the vivid lines of division. The brooding North, the silent East, the lively South, the tattered West. If Dantalion imagined the map of Hell as a tapestry, he could see where the edges frayed, where the embroidery grew luminous, and where new, disturbing patterns were emerging.  
  
But what Behemoth spread out before him was not a tapestry but a map made of paper. Enchanted, yes, but not as detailed as the one in Dantalion's head. It showed all the gates, the rivers that intersected the towns and kingdoms and the edges that led to the human world, to Limbo, and to nowhere at all.  
  
“As you can see, Your Majesty,” he was saying, “Peter’s Gate is still vulnerable to attack. We have deployed our strongest spell workers to the area, but the magic there is weak. It will take more time to rebuild it to its former—”  
  
“And what about here?” Dantlaion’s finger traced a circle around the East.  
  
The question seemed to fluster Behemoth. “The East, Your Majesty? As far as I know, there was little damage done there. Whatever was destroyed—if anything was destroyed—should have been rebuilt by now.”

Dantalion tapped his finger on the paper. He'd seen this map before, and once a name had been scrawled across this region, just like how his own name was scrawled across the center of the map. “I want squadrons sent to all the major cities there,” he said.  
  
“A-are you sure, Your Majesty? Such an action could spread dissent.” It was rare to hear Behemoth stutter. Rarer still to hear Behemoth disagree about on oncoming battle.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
“Very well.” He bowed, his eyes sliding over the map once again.

Dantalion studied the other regions of the map. More names missing, more names changed. He saw Lamia's name, and a fainter Astaroth, beneath it. And still, there was a name that hadn't changed at all.  Even if he resigned to kneel and bow his head, Beelzebub was still seething underneath. Camio had been _his_ candidate. _His_ straight shot to the throne. It would only take one rebellion, one spark, to send the map of Hell ablaze again.  
  
Better, Dantalion thought, to set an example. He wanted Beelzebub to see the East submit. He wanted Beelzebub to remember. And then, perhaps, he wouldn't have to worry about Camio.  
  
But, Dantalion questioned himself as he stared at the map long after Behemoth had left, did he truly want their cooperation?  
  
Long ago, Lucifer had shown him such a map. He’d carved it with magic into the wall and whispered into Dantalion’s ear, _behold my Empire!_ His voice had boomed along the stone walls, had risen up the crackling shaft of the fire place. And as Dantalion watched Lucifer’s magic flowing on the map—rivers twisting and cities sprouting and kingdoms spurring—he had wondered if his master had wished him to destroy this world as well.  
  
What would Hell become under Dantalion’s rule? That was the question on everyone's minds. And it was the same one on his.

* * *

"That's the last one," Lamia said, her head bobbing softly in sleepiness. Dantalion felt the same weariness. After the meeting with Behemoth, he'd been thrust into countless other ones.

It was dark, but Dantalion had never minded the dark. In the dark, he could see clearly. Not, of course, what was right in front of him, but things from his past. He remembered little things, the way Solomon’s smiles seemed to falter when it was close to the end, the way William’s eyes had turned from hard and cynical to soft and kind.  
  
And the way Astaroth would sometimes catch him off guard.  
  
“Do you remember what it was like, Dantalion? To live as human among other humans? The satisfaction in knowing your enemies’ hearts would be devoured in the afterlife?”  
  
Dantalion found himself shaking his head.  
  
“No, perhaps you don’t,” she said dreamily. The ice in the bourbon clinked as she tipped it to her lips once again.  
  
“There is no afterlife here,” she went on. “If I hate someone, I suspect I will keep on hating them for thousands of years. There used to be satisfaction in poisoning them; now, there’s no poison but words, no satisfaction except the petty victories we tell ourselves we’ve won.”  
  
She brought the glass to her face, its tawny color reflected in her eyes.  
  
“Promise me something, Dantalion, if you become Emperor.”    
  
She wasn’t one to be overzealous. _If_ , not when. She hadn’t backed him because she’d thought he’d have a fair shot at winning. If anything, when she first brought up the idea of becoming substitute king to him, she had explained it would be a long, hard road for the both of them. Still, she’d never backed down once he’d agreed. It was like he was her champion now, and he’d try his best not to blow it.  
  
“Promise me you won’t be anyone’s fool.”

* * *

  
When William awoke, he felt so embarrassed he wanted to die.  
  
At least no one was there. He’d awoken not to Solomon’s wives, but in his own time, in his own bed, and with his own body. Just that small realization was a relief.  
  
So Solomon could push him out of the memories if he chose? Or they chose? Was that how it worked? William wasn’t sure just what it was yet. He also wasn’t sure if he was any closer to learning more about Dantalion. But whatever the case, his body screamed for movement and food. He scrambled out of bed and made for the stairs.  
  
He informed Isaac and Sytry of what he’d seen as Kevin prepared a light meal.  
  
“So Maria left?” he asked after gulping down several pieces of bread. He hadn’t quite wrapped his head around her being a demon. In his head, he could picture Mrs. Mollins all alone with a pack of scary, flying things after her. And yet, perhaps she was quite capable by herself. After all, she’d crossed into Hell as a demon.  
  
“Is there anything else that’s happened while I’ve been asleep?”  
  
“Sytry’s  been teaching me Latin,” Isaac proclaimed.  
  
“Is that true?”  
  
Sytry’s  shrugged. “Not so much teaching, but correcting his pronunciation. A lot of the books here are written in Latin.”  
  
“So you’re just learning spells, are you?” William asked crossly, but there was no real …. in his voice.  
  
Days passed, or it seemed like days. Perfect summer skies rolled past his window, but William hardly stepped out the house. He’d been reading up on histories, cross-referencing archeology with legends. On the dawn of the third day, he was ready to take the plunge again. This time, Kevin was a little less hesitant. He passed the cup over, just as if it were a normal cup of tea, and just as the liquid hit William’s throat, he was out.

* * *

  
And back.  
  
It was dark, but he was not in the pillar room like when he had first arrived. Small lamps illuminated a balcony and he saw that there were many people here. Carried on the currents of cool night air was the smell of food and the sound of laughter and soft chatter. For a moment, it disoriented William. It was all too much, all at once, to be around Solomon’s people. What if he messed something up? What if he said something wrong and started a war without know it?  
  
Someone brushed his shoulder and he turned around, exhaling a sigh of relief.  
  
“You’re sure you’ve had enough to drink, Solomon?”  
  
“Astaroth.”  
  
So this wasn’t just any celebration, but one of demons. Now that William looked up, the moon did seem particularly full tonight. Didn’t demons like that sort of thing?  
  
She tried to push a cup into his hand, but he pushed it right back. “No, no, I’ve had enough.” He lied, wondering if his Solomon impression—or lack thereof—was convincing.  
  
“Suit yourself.” Astaroth downed both cups, almost giggling as the alcohol went down. Seeing her like this was a bit disconcerting to William. He’d always thought of her as cool and composed, but perhaps she’d been different in the past. A little less composed. A little more at ease.  
  
William crept his way through the mingling crowd and found a quiet place to sit down. A vine with fragrant flowers wrapped around a terrace, and from there he watched the demons socialize with one another. His eyes scanned for Dantalion, but he was nowhere in sight. How typical of him, William thought.  
  
He really ought to get up and find him, but the scene seemed too peaceful. He wanted to enjoy it a bit more.  
  
And strangely, none of the demons seemed to want anything other than his company. They didn’t fight for him, at least, not in the way they had in the past, or rather, the future. William remembered there was no race for substitute king here. Lucifer was still well, still the supreme ruler, and no one questioned his authority. There was a calm mien to all the demons’ looks.    
  
William thought he might get up and look for Dantalion when a demon broke away from the crowd and strode toward him. He almost didn’t recognize her in such plain clothing, but she wasted no time cozying up against his shoulder. She was a far cry from the smirking demoness he’d met in the Cotswolds. She’d been all fight and cruelty then—here she was as playful and smiling as a young girl—her eyes not filled with daggers, but with light.  
  
“Solomon?” Eligos asked, staring out into the crowd.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“How is it that humans can have many wives, but demons only have one?”  
  
William paled at the question. He remembered the strangeness of the interactions with Solomon’s wives.  
  
“Why do you ask?”  
  
“It’s just,” she sighed. “I’ve fallen in love with someone, but he’s married to someone else.” She whispered it, as if there were someone else listening. “And he doesn’t seem interested in having another wife.”  
  
“Aren’t you a bit young?” He tried to reason with her, knowing he had no place to talk on the matter, and no authority to give to it either.  
  
“I’m not that young,” she said. “And don’t human girls marry young?”  
  
“That’s because humans don’t live very long.”  
  
She seemed to consider his point for a while, then let out an exasperated sigh. “I still don’t know what to do.”  
  
“If he doesn’t love you back, what can you do?”  
  
“I’m not sure.” Her voice was wistful. The lovelorn sighs of a young girl in love. William really had no idea how to comfort her, or what to say. And it did not seem like Solomon was not too keen on intervening with this particular case.  
  
He found himself thinking back to Dantalion. Not the Dantalion of this time, but the Dantalion of his. If he doesn’t love you back, what can you do?

* * *

  
The sprawling opera house was an architectural nightmare, and yet, the demons still ushered into it, from all the great houses of Hell.  
  
The balconies jutted out at precarious angles, seemingly incongruent with the curveture of the stage. There were no private boxes, but floating platforms of all sorts of sizes and shapes. And the arena seating had no floor, just seats that hung there like a jewels on a necklace. And yet, it all come together, as far as venues in Hell were concerned.  
  
“Did they really think things would stay the same?”  
  
“But it was so sudden.”  
  
The stray whispers broke into Dantalion’s thoughts. He looked around, but the speaker had already disappeared into the wave of activity as the venue darkened.  
  
The singer appeared to rapt applause and soon began an undulating melody that matched both the howling wind and the light flurry of snow.  
  
Dantlaion tried to get lost in the music, but his mind kept flickering back to earlier that day. He had declared that the creation of Nephilim was to cease immediately. It had been a simple statement, but the reaction had been catastrophic. Almost half his court had marched out in a silent, incensed protest.  
  
On the stage, the singer finished with one more belting note. Dantalion clapped instinctively as the singer bowed.  
  
He would have liked to show William such a sight. The opera house shining in gold and crystal, rivaling the sparkle and shine of the singer’s gown.  
  
The lights came on, signaling the intermission. Dantalion relaxed in the velvety, plush seat. He would wait.  
  
“I remember my first opera,” Gilgamesh started. Dantalion looked at him for the first time since they had been seated. His eyes did not so much as betray a hint of glee. “I remember thinking if I wanted to hear such screams, I should have wondered onto a battlefield.”  
  
“We could have done something else,” Dantalion said.  
  
“No, this is the best kind of place for it.” Gilgamesh’s attention was elsewhere, focused on a little auburn bob that appeared to be causing quite the fuss. “Let them see their Emperor out in public, enjoying himself. Give them a sense of normalcy before fiercely ripping it away.”  
  
“I’m still—“ Dantalion started, but he didn’t know how to finish. Still what? He wasn’t afraid. No, not of the crowds of here. He didn’t regret what he had done. It would be better this way. Without Nephilim.  
  
Gilgamesh rose, a movement so sudden that Dantalion nearly did the same.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Just need to check on something.” He turned back. “You’ll be fine by yourself, right?”  
  
Dantalion nodded. As if it could be any other way.  

* * *

  
“It’s the Emperor’s edict and you have to follow it,” Lamia said. Her voice was getting dry from all the times she’d had to repeat herself.  
  
“But to not create any Nephilim… Heaven will surely overtake us now.” The demon she was speaking to had grown pale.  
  
She wished she’d had a comeback for that—Astaroth would have—but she left it alone. It scared her just as much to think that Hell would be left vulnerable, but not from the lack of Nephilim. No. It was the division it had created she feared most now. The demons it had created. She saw them clawing their way for power and the ground Dantalion stood on turning into quicksand.  
  
“There really isn’t any reason for them to.”  
  
The voice startled her more than it should have.  
  
She whipped around to see Gilgamesh, dressed for the opera in a black suit. Gold, metallic clips on his collar and tie kept the suit from looking like he was attending a funeral. It was subtle and flashy and she could feel her annoyance rising yet another degree.  
  
“After all,” Gilgamesh continued in unconcerned tone, “we aren’t competing for the same resource to grow our numbers.”  
  
“And then their numbers will swell until an invasion is inevitable.”  
  
“Tell me,” Gilgamesh’s eyes narrowed, “how many Saints have there been in the last century? In the last two?”  
  
The demon struggled to count the number, although Gilgamesh’s point had been rendered obvious. “Humans are doing our job for us.”  
  
The demon started to say something, but Lamia had no interest in hearing it. She grabbed Gilgamesh by the sleeve and walked out of the theater.  
  
A crowd had gathered outside and she had to almost push her way to the mezzanine. By the time she arrive there, she was not even sure if Gilgamesh was still following her.  
  
He was, of course, and he took his place right beside her, resting his arm against the railing and looking at her expectantly.  
  
“I can smell Dantalion on you.” Lamia whispered like a crack of a whip.  
  
“But of course,” Gilgamesh said. “I am his subject.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.” She tried to hide her contempt, but she didn’t think it worked. Instead, she beat a hasty retreat and changed the subject. “Why did you cut in back there? Is it because you didn’t think I could handle myself? Do you think I’m only a child that—” she stopped at that, as if all the reasons were too horrible and demeaning to describe.  
  
“I was simply looking for you. I have something I would like you to do.” Gilgamesh’s face was blank and unreadable and somehow Lamia found that the worst part about him.  
  
“And what is that?”  
  
“To protect Dantalion with me.”  
  
Her eyebrows rose by the slightest degree. “What’s wrong? Is he in trouble? I know that today was disastrous—and I am still doing damage control, mind you—but surely…”  
  
Gilgamesh held a finger to his lips and she instantly stopped talking. With his eyes, he followed a demon in a long cloak. Lamia did the same. Then Gilgamesh’s eyes snapped back to her.  
  
“I need you to watch closely."

* * *

  
Dantalion was aware of how quiet the hall had become. The chatter from before was all but gone, lingering on currents of small chat and restrained giggles and grunts. It was especially quiet where he was, alone and above the rest of the dwindling audience.  
  
The chill that ran down Dantalion’s spine was all the warning he got. He whipped around, just as two knives embedded themselves in his arm and the chair instead of his chest. He looked around, peering into the shadowed corners, but the lights had gone low and he couldn’t differentiate anything from the shifting darkness.  
  
“Damn.” He let fire illuminate the space around him. Drops of blood reflected in the fire, speckling the velvet chair black. He pulled the knife out of his arm, wincing at the little flicker of pain that shot up and down his arm.  
  
“You missed,” Dantalion shouted to the shadows. He couldn’t resist the grin that had started to crawl up his face. “I was actually getting bored. It’s been a while since I’ve fought for my life.”  
  
The fires dispersed, shooting towards the corners of the operahouse. He heard gasps below and realized that he’d finally gotten the attention of whoever was left in the audience.

Just like he'd planned. 

Now, he only needed to worry about staying alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, MO fandom. I am sorry.


End file.
